The Shifting Sands of Calimshan
by Raphaella Von'Mercer
Summary: This story takes place where the Sell-Swords left off. Artemis and Jarlaxle part ways, Entreri to the desert to battle his emotions and Jarlaxle off with Athrogate to pursue his many whims.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**  
Artemis Entreri rode hard out of Memnon, eager to put as many leagues as he could between himself and all that had transpired there. The flaming hooves of his mount kicked up a plume of hot sand that streamed out behind him, a trail that could be seen for miles if anyone took care to notice. In his present state of mind he could care less who or what designed to follow him so long as it was not Jarlaxle and his new pet Dwarf.

Entreri pulled his reins in hard, as a fit of laughter seized him. The image of Athrogate in a small brimmed black hat took the assassin off guard. He laughed long and hard, a sight anyone would have found disturbing had they been around to witness. He laughed until tears stung his eyes and threatened to spill over. It was the laugh of a man that had been too long dead.

It emerged from somewhere beyond the vast emptiness that threatened to consume him. It was irrational, spontaneous, and genuine. As the spasms of laughter died down, he began to ponder the source of the emotion, and then thought better of it. Come what may, he was done with analyzing his feelings. Too rarely a man was given extra years of life, and Artemis Entreri would not waste it contemplating his every emotion.

He blew out a great sigh. Humorous as the teaming of that pair was, they truly deserved each other. In a matter of weeks, Jarlaxle would be in the company of the best dressed Dwarf in all the realms, with his skin a few shades darker for the trouble, Entreri was sure. He chuckled a bit at that. If Jarlaxle had thought his lessons on diplomacy lost on me, let him see how well Athrogate takes to them.  
Entreri kicked his mount into motion and sped off through the desert that spanned from Memnon to Calimport. He stopped to rest through the hottest part of the day almost, but not quite, regretting leaving the enchanted hat with Jarlaxle. He sniggered at the thought. Look who is becoming careless with his magical items. Ah well, the hat he could live with; the Drow he could not. Wherever the mercenary was headed, whatever personal demons Jarlaxle had left to battle, Entreri was determined to have no further part of it.

He dropped a small scale, sandy brown tent on to the hot sand and spoke a command word. As soon as he did, it began to grow until he spoke a second command word to halt its progress. Undetectable to any mundane eyes, the tent would serve as a respite from the hot sun. Entreri dismissed his mount and made his way to the back of the tent to lounge on a pile of soft, silk covered pillows. There he forced himself to relax. He had seen the back of Jarlaxle D'aerthe, for a while at least.

Returning to Calimport should be his main concern for the moment. With all the things that had happened after he and the drow took their leave of the place, Entreri had not given a thought as to what would await him should he ever decide to return.

He had left the Basadoni Guild in ruins. Kimmuriel and Rai'gy had slaughtered any who had witnessed the presence of Bregan D'aerthe sometime after Jarlaxle's little incident with Crenshinibon. Bregan D'aerthe had also decimated several of the smaller guilds as well, leaving only burned out husks where once lavish guild houses stood.

In his haste to get to Jarlaxle before his lieutenants could take Crenshinibon from their leader's cold dead hands, Entreri had also run afoul of Pasha Da'Daclan. True he only killed five or so of the Rakers's street soldiers, but Sharlotta never made it to her meeting with Pasha Da'Daclan. It was never wise to insult a Pasha.

Still, he knew the Basadoni Guild was strong. Even decapitated as it was without the old man and his lieutenants; Artemis figured it could survive even the worst Drow wrought chaos.  
Then there was Dwahvel Tiggerwillies. He had strong feelings for the diminutive female and was more than eager to see her again, eager to be among friends. Never in his life could he recall ever having called anyone a true friend. Dwahvel was someone he knew he could trust, and he had to admit it felt good. Truly Drizzt was right; life was empty without friends with which to share it.

Drizzt... Artemis hung his head and let out a longsuffering sigh. He reached into his pocket and clenched his fist around a cold metal locket. He told himself once again that he and Drizzt could never have been friends. Their hate for each other was just too great to overcome. In another life perhaps, but even then they were just too different, or too alike for comfort.

Well, what's done is done, he sighed, and there could be no going back. He had lifted the locket off Jarlaxle to keep as a reminder. A reminder of what, the assassin had yet to discern. All he knew was he had to have it. If Jarlaxle ever missed the item he could always have Kimmuriel fetch up another one.

Returning to Calimport may turn out a bigger disaster than before. Entreri was sure a sizable price would be on his head, and in Calimport rarely was a bounty left uncollected. He was older and wiser now; he told himself he would not make the same mistakes twice.

Older... it had been nearly a year since he had thought himself older, slower. No more, he thought, as he inspected the gray pallor of his skin. No, physically he was not older at all. If any thing he felt and appeared much younger than his more than forty years. How many years he had left in him was a mystery, infused with the stuff of shadow, he may very well live quite a long time.

He searched beneath the pillows of his tent until he found one of the many silk sheets Jarlaxle was so fond of. He couldn't help but smile as he cut several long strips form the supple black fabric. The drow would have a fit if he ever learned what cruelty Entreri now inflected upon his beloved sheets.

He wound the fabric tight over the hilts of both the jeweled dagger and Charon's Claw, suitably disguising the distinctive weapons. He knew it wouldn't hold under close scrutiny, but that hardly mattered as he did not intend anyone to get a lingering look.

Indeed, even if the restructured Basadoni Guild welcomed him back with an open purse, Entreri still had Da'Daclan of the Rakers to contend with. Assuming the Pasha still lived. For all he knew an all out street war could have erupted in the wake of Jarlaxle's little venture.

Artemis felt his shoulders slump as he considered his options. He could easily disguise himself and bypass any obstacles he may otherwise encounter, or he could chance slinking form shadow to shadow and likely remain unnoticed as he made his was through the city, but for how long?  
He would not, could not become his own prisoner in the Copper Ante. His face twisted into a look of utter revolution as an image of Dondon sprang unbidden to mind. No! Never that, gluttony would never be his vice, nor cowardice his prison. He shook his head to further banish the image he found far too disgusting to contemplate.

He knew his worry could all be for naught, though it was doubtful, there was still the possibility that all was well. He could still be considered a ranking member of Basadoni Guild. Not that he wanted such a position. No, that man died back in Memnon. Died in a fiery temple to the false god of vengeance.

Truly he was at an impasse. In Calimshan an assassin of his caliber did not simply retire. Retirement was merely a term for banishment, or death, which ever came first. The Great Artemis Entreri hardly feared for his life. He scoffed at the very notion, at the same time however; he knew the value of caution. The last thing he wanted was to get in over his head.  
The best course of action, he decided, was to sneak into the Copper Ante and seek out Dwahvel. Dwahvel Tiggerwillies would know every detail he needed. While he was unsure as to what changes the city's streets had undergone, Entreri was certain the Halflings Guild would have remained unscathed.

It was upon her word the future of his life hinged it seemed. He had not the stomach to return to his old life in Calimport. If the city would not accept him as a changed man, Entreri would make his home elsewhere. With that decision made, he was ready to be on his way.

Jarlaxle and Athrogate were able to procure employment as caravan guards, escorting a caravan that had departed that very day out of Memmon. The drow in elf's skin was more than glad to leave the foul place behind. He shuddered slightly as he remembered the crunch of Athrogate's little snack.

He turned in his saddle to look back down the length of the caravan, his eyes widening slightly as he caught sight of the dwarf. For all his grumbling, the little fellow seemed to be getting on better with his mount. Well, at the very least, the beast had stopped spitting. He smiled as he turned back around and considered his own mount.

Camels, the oddly shaped beasts were called. He twisted his delicate fingers in the things shaggy matted fur. As odd as the camel beasts appeared, he had to admit they were well adapted to such a harsh climate. Though he was curious about what purpose the large misshapen humps served, he wondered too what price such an exotic creature would fetch in the lightless caverns of his home. Jarlaxle chuckled to himself as he imagined Kimmuriel's reaction to such a request.

True, he and his less than enthusiastic companion, had far better mounts at their disposal, but a Nightmare and an Infernal Boar would be much too conspicuous. As it stood, it was only by the grace of Selûne that they had not been chased down and apprehended for Entreri's little temple interlude. He smirked at that, it seemed the gods themselves' did indeed possess a fair sense of irony. Ah well, that was a contemplation for another day.

They were on their way to Myratma, a port city just north of Memmon. From there Jarlaxle had plans to book passage aboard a ship bound for Baldur's Gate. Striking out from Baldur's Gate over land to Cormyr seemed the best rout, far better than traveling the whole way in the saddle in any case. Besides, Jarlaxle thought, I'm looking forward to testing my sea-legs.  
Again he looked back at his comrade, just in time to see the dwarf hit the sand face first. Quelling the urge to laugh out loud, Jarlaxle smoothly guided his camel to the back of the caravan. He dismounted with a flourish and extended his hand to a sand spitting Athrogate.

Just as the dwarf seized his wrist in a vice like grip, Jarlaxle caught on to the ruse, but it was too late. With a strong jerk, Athrogate sent the handsome elf tumbling toward the sand.

Jarlaxle managed to alter his course, and using the momentum, he fell into a graceful roll followed by a series of handsprings and aerial flips. He finished with a bow, sweeping his great feathered hat out in front of him so the brim nearly touched the sand.

"Strange way ta gets yer kicks elf!" Athrogate called out as he brushed the sand out of his beard.

Jarlaxle regarded the dwarf coldly as he replaced his hat atop his long golden hair. His anger abated some what as dusted off his fine tailored cloak.

"What no rhymes from you, my dear Athrogate? Oh, but I am wounded! To think such a performance has gone to waste," Jarlaxle said, lifting a hand as if to cover a wound in his chest.

"Suren ye test me patience, coal skin. That foul camel beasts' a'beggen. A'beggen for a kiss I'd reckon."

The grave tone in his voice did less to betray his intended kiss than the swiftness with which his twin maces appeared in his hands.

"Ah that's more like it my friend, but come now it's only a two day trek to Myratma. There is plenty of fine ale, and I'm sure an even finer woman, awaiting Athrogate there," Jarlaxle spread his hands to accentuate his point.

"So long as yer payen elf an none o' them skinny little ones yer so fond of. I likes a little meat on them bones!! Gwaaahaa!" Athrogate made a show of replacing the maces across his back as they headed back to the caravan.

"That's the spirit! Now why don't you go and sit in one of the wagons for a spell, give the poor beast a rest for a while?" Jarlaxle kept his tone up beat, but in truth he was wondering if even Bregan D'aerthe had enough gold in its coffers to buy a woman for that one.

A grunt was the only response he got out of the dwarf. Jarlaxle could only shake his head and sigh. It was going to be a rather long two days, especially if Athrogate insisted on behaving like a mule. Ah well, the price one pays for good company, he thought, as he tracked down his own camel.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Malehedectar pushed her tired mount onward, determined not to make camp until she had Myratma in her sights. Basadoni is dead and someone is going to pay.

She cursed herself for leaving his side all those years ago. Basadoni had been like a father to her, well the closest thing to a father she had ever known. He was long dead now though and there was nothing she could do about that fact at the moment.

If it had not been for Gideon's anti scrying magic LaValle could have contacted her sooner. A twinge of regret made her ease in the saddle. Gideon would be missed, to be sure, but Calimport was no place for such a man.  
Has it really been so long? , she wondered. She had left Basadoni shortly after it became apparent that Entreri had left Calimport for good. Truly she hated the city and the only thing that had kept her there had been the assassin. She and Artemis were once considered the Basadoni Guild's greatest assets, until of course the fall of Pasha Pook.

While Entreri gave an added threat to the Basadoni name, Malehedectar had lined the Guild's coffers with her considerable thieving talents. She and the assassin were mere acquaintances, rarely were the two even in the Guild house at the same time, but on those rare occasions that they were, she had badgered the man into a few sparing sessions.  
Such was her skill at stealth that she even managed to follow Artemis Entreri. And follow him she did, on numerous occasions becoming his silent shadow and witnessing his every move. Soon enough, shadowing the assassin became her only pleasure in that foul city. Watching, marveling at his skill. The man's very presence, once he made it apparent, was often enough to still the heart of his victims.

When he departed with the halfling Regis in toe, she had LaValle scry him every few tendays, but to no avail. Frustrated as she was, Malehedectar jumped at the chance to leave the city and strike out on her own.  
For over fifteen years Malehedectar and Gideon had combed the ruins at Myth Drannor, but now she was on her way home. Little had changed over the years for her as time did not take its toll on elves in the same manner as it did humans.

She had witnessed its effects though, etched as they were upon Gideon's face. She wondered now, her horse slowing to a trot, about Pasha Basadoni. The Pasha had to have seen at least eighty summers before his death. The image she conjured was one of a withered old man, but with a fire in his cold gray eyes. Slowly the fire in those eyes faded and winked out. The sting of tears tore the image from her mind.

Malehedectar came back to herself quickly lest she ruin her mask. Unconsciously she reached to adjust it. It was a simple black silk affair that hit just below her eyes and covered her face to below her chin. For over sixty years the mask had served to hide the cruelty inflected upon her at the hands of the Derro. Again she was touched by guilt for leaving behind the man who had restored her face.

The feeling passed as she considered the jeweled dagger at her hip. A gift from Pasha Basadoni, and one of a set. The very same set the man had used to forge a mighty Guild on the mean streets of Calimport. Though he never admitted as much, she knew the blades were dear to the man. Passing them on to Artemis and her was perhaps the most telling sign of affection they had ever received form the Pasha. The vampiric dagger had served her well over the years, sometimes a bit too well, but for that reason, at the very least, she had to assure the man's legacy remained intact.

LaValle had been brief on the details saying only that the Basadoni Guild had been decapitated after a brief, but swift surge in strength. Now facing enemies on all sides, LaValle warned the Guild could very well collapse.

He also mentioned he was in possession of a signed and sealed message for her that had appeared in his champers shortly after Basadoni's death. Oh, he assured her he had not perused the message, magically or otherwise, but he had been vague on how it came to be in his possession.

Things simply did not just appear unbidden into a wizard's chambers. Well, not quite, she thought, as she considered the many times she had done just that, but someone had to have delivered it. And he was being very obtuse as to who it may have been.

Malehedectar had plenty of time to contemplate the Wizard's motives during the weeks of travel from Cormyr. She had become a regular visitor of LaValle while shadowing Entreri. LaValle would never cross the assassin outright, but keeping tabs on the man for her was a mild treachery if it could have been considered such at all really. They were affiliated with the same Guild after all. But the wizard held no loyalty to her, or the Basadonis, at least no loyalty that would prompt the man to try to contact her so often, and for so long.

She had reached the conclusion that the Wizard was acting out of self preservation. LaValle must have figured she would eventually turn up to claim the message. If by that time however, the Basadoni Guild had fallen and he had not properly warned her, well, there was just no telling what kind of punishment she would resort to.

Malehedectar scowled as she noticed her mount had seized her inattention as an invitation to slow to a crawl. She scanned the horizon in the deepening gloom and let out a sigh. Though she could see just as well in the deepest night, the horse could not and one misstep could turn a day's ride into two days walk. Reluctantly she began to seek out a place to camp for the night.

It seemed Entreri's will was not nearly enough to suppress in sleep what he had banished form his waking mind. The assassin's dreams, nightmares were punctuated with vivid images of his father's face staring through the flames of his ruined temple, Calihye's look of stark terror when she discovered her dagger could not pierce his flesh. He felt as if he were falling, falling forever, and the wind in his ears, mimicking the sound of Jarlaxle's mocking laughter.

Artemis Entreri woke with his heart pounding and sweat streaming down his face. Entreri was no fool, he knew he could not contain the onslaught of emotions indefinitely, but the assassin had hoped that he would reach Dwahvel before the feelings; the memories could drive him mad. He tried to catch his breath but Entreri's chest was heaving and blood was pounding in his ears. His stomach clenched, he thought he was going to be sick.

He fumbled around blindly for his hipflask. His hands shook so badly he could not remove the stopper. It was as if all their strength had been sapped. In a fit of frustration and added outrage, he attempted to pitch the offending flask across the tent.

He cocked his arm for the throw, but his movements were shaky and uncoordinated. The flask tumbled form his weak grasp and hit Jarlaxle's Sava board at just the right angle to loosen the stopper; spilling its contents onto the plush rugs of the tent floor.

Entreri watch as a dark stain spread out from the vessel. His ears rang as he clenched his jaw tight enough to crack teeth. A lump formed in his throat, a tightness that felt as if he had swallowed his own fist whole. His lips began to tremble and his vision clouded over. He blinked to clear his eyes, again and again. Soon his whole body shook, wracked with sobs he could no longer suppress.

Desperately he fought for control, for some inner tool with which to battle this welling tide. He had mastered Crenshinibon, had bested Charon's Claw, but it was the Flute that had found an opening. A chink in his armor through which his life's blood would surely flow.

Artemis Entreri let out a cry of anguished heartbreak. Tears flowed freely down his face as he fought to gulp down air. He tumbled onto his hands and knees and buried his head in the pillows to better stifle his screams.

He had stopped fighting and so the images, the memories, came flooding his mind in a violent torrent: his mothers figure receding through the crowded streets of Memmon. The smell of his uncle's breath, his fathers face, Theebes Rayuset's twisted smile. Pasha Basadoni's piercing gray eyes, the man's expression as Entreri plunged a Drow forged sword through his black heart!

Every trauma, every sleight, real or imagined came to him in vivid recollection. The scenes played out in horrible detail. He could only scream and shudder as he relived each one, feeling keenly the pain he could no longer deny.

After what seemed like hours, the memories of Calihye came and with them the remembered feelings of love. The shaking started anew as the scenes of their love making played out unmercifully. As her dagger came down, he let out a moan of such utter loss and sorrow it seemed unnatural.

He shoved his palms into his eyes to shut the images out, but still the torrent came. His agony dragged on for what seemed like an eternity. Finally near dawn, emotionally and physically exhausted Artemis Entreri drifted off into an uneasy slumber.He did not rise until well after mid day. Feeling drained and foreign in his own skin, he took his time in preparing for another days ride.

His body ached all over, his eyes were red and swollen and his head was pounding. Artemis ran a hand through his disheveled hair and itched at his two days growth of beard. Truly he felt miserable as he glanced around the tent. The neat pile of pillows had been scattered to the winds, not to mention the Sava pieces and dice dotting the floor. The whole place reeked of whisky too, which was not helping his headache at all.

Angrily he went about straightening the tent, which had become quite comfortable during his time with Jarlaxle, but while Entreri preferred a more ordered existence, the Drow was just the opposite. Among the scattered pillows and game pieces were small drow sized socks, undershirts and all manner of gaudy jewelry.

None of the items were magical, but the socks radiated an aura of funk that could no doubt stun an Ogre at the very least, he thought as he toed them into a corner.  
That done Artemis sat down on top of the freshly built mound of pillows and began to ponder his emotional collapse of the previous night.

To say he was uncomfortable would have been a grave understatement. Jarlaxle lounged, wide awake on the stiff planks of a wagon bed listening to possibly the worst sound he had ever heard in his long life.  
'If Athrogate's snoring did not kill him the cold surely would', he thought bitterly as he adjusted his cloak to better shield him from the night. He wondered if he would ever get used the abrupt changes in the surface weather.  
Jarlaxle sniffled and, without thinking, wiped his nose with his hand. An action he regretted immediately as he examined the slimy trail on his palm. Disgusted and exasperated, he sat up and looked around.

Of course no one had noticed as most of the caravan was asleep, and humans could not see well in the dark. With a shrug, he looked to his sleeping companion and in a moment of fine inspiration Jarlaxle cleaned the offending hand with a corner of Athrogate's cloak.

How he missed Artemis and the surly man's enchanted tent. Jarlaxle had meant to get one for himself, but with their mad dash out of Calimshan it had slipped his mind. A sly grin played on the drow's lips as he brought out one of his many wands. At the same moment however, a particularly loud seemed to rouse his companion.

"What are ye up to!! Waken a fellow like that elf? A good way ter get yer head caved in I reckon!" Athrogate grumbled as he shook the sleep form his eyes.

"You know, my dear Athrogate, I have seen many things in my long life, many strange and spectacular things. But never have I witnessed a man roused form his slumber so, and by his own infernal snoring too!" Jarlaxle said wagging the wand menacingly at the dwarf.

For a moment, Athrogate looked confused but then shook his head and let out a peel of his garish laughter, "Gwhaaaha! So I did, so I did! That be the reason ye be tryin ta make a dwarf sickle out o'me then?" he asked gesturing to the wand.

"What? Oh no, this is a wand of teleporting." Jarlaxle corrected as he tucked the wand away. "I was merely going to send you someplace a bit warmer. I wouldn't want you to catch a chill after all, and I have heard the Nine Hells look particularly breathtaking this time of year." Jarlaxle's smile was more a show of teeth than anything pleasant however.

"Suren ye got a strange humor on ye, coal skin. But yer lyin'. Lyin' as sure as a Halfling caught with his hand in a pie chest."

Jarlaxle put his hands on his hips and tapped his booted foot, impatiently waiting for the dwarf to elaborate.

"I'm fer thinken ye should let that Artemis fellow be. At least for a good while if ye catch me meanen." Athrogate looked the Mercenary dead in the eye with that last remark.

Jarlaxle was taken aback by the blunt truth of the assessment and the swiftness with which Athrogate had pieced it together.

"And do tell, good dwarf, how was it you came to such a conclusion?" And how sure are you I don't have every intention of sending you to the Abyss for all that abysmal noise, Jarlaxle thought to himself, as he struck a pensive pose.

"Bah, jus a good guess is all. Nutten to worry yer pretty golden head over," Athrogate replied as he rubbed his hands briskly over his forearms.

"Tis a bit chilly ere a night it'et? I'm thinken ter go an take me a turn at one o'them watch fires." The dwarf hoped off the wagon and had gone three strides before calling back, "Ye Comen?"

With a shrug and an exaggerated sigh, Jarlaxle turned to follow.  
The two men at the watch fire abruptly ceased their whispered conversation as Jarlaxle and Athrogate approached. Never a good sign, Jarlaxle noted as he sat down near the small fire.

"Been a quiet night, eh?" Athrogate asked rhetorically as he plopped down beside a dark skinned Calishite with a crimson turban.

"Yess it iss most quiet, most quiet for many tendays." the Calishite replied. "My name iss Alyea Sha'Halis Al'amair and you may call me Alyea. Dis iss my partner Siead Harhailali Gupda.," Alyea said, nodding his head in the direction of his friend.

"Siead is at your service Master…," the long haired fighter prompted.

"Jus Athrogate, an none' o that Master foolishness now."

Jarlaxle cast a sidelong look at Athrogate and loudly cleared his throat.

"Please allow me to introduce myself, Jarlaxle D'aerthe at your service. Master Alyea, Master Siead." Jarlaxle gave a curt nod of his head to each of the two men as he said their names.

"Master Alyea, you mentioned it's been quiet for some time?" Jarlaxle prompted.

"Yess, yess. There iss trouble in Calimshan you see. Da Guilds in Calimport be in open conflict an so daere iss…," Alyea let his sentence lag, unsure of what to say. Mostly he did not wish to utter it aloud and jinx the relative safety of the roads. He just simply spread his hands encompassing the peaceful, sleeping caravan.

"Well then mighten it be were a'travelen in the wrong direction eh?" Athrogate said with a wink.

Jarlaxle let the comment pass with no reply. Instead he turned again to Alyea, the least imposing of the two and therefore the most dangerous.

"One would think that with such conflict there is great opportunity to be had. Would it not stand to reason that with the powers that be so… otherwise engaged, that the roads would perhaps be somewhat more dangerous than before?"

Alyea's face hardened, and he looked to his partner to back him up, but found no reassurance there.

"Yess, yess, normally dat would ring true, most perceptive Master Jarlaxle. As it iss, da Guilds be loosing soldiers faster dan dey can replace dem. De price dey pay to dem young bloods far out ways da bounty of da road, yess." Alyea finished with a bob of his head that Jarlaxle took as a mark of finality.

"I see. Thank you for your insights, Master Alyea, Master Siead." Jarlaxle fell into silence and stared into the fire watching the flames dance over the dried camel dung that sustained them, pointedly ignoring the stench, as he digested the man's words.

Artemis has no idea what he is riding into, Jarlaxle mused. He thought back to the last conversation he had with the man, trying to discern his mindset. With all the turmoil Entreri had experienced in Memmon, coupled with the events surrounding their departure of Vassa, Jarlaxle was unsure his friend would arrive in Calimport with a sound mind. Adding to that, the chaos he would find there when he returned home, well it was sure to cause the man further duress.  
Perhaps a warning was in order, just a quick visit to see how his friend was getting on. Jarlaxle glanced at Athrogate just as the idea began to form and quickly dismissed it.

Artemis was a capable man, he could learn the temperament of Calimport on his own and well before he set foot in the city, Jarlaxle was sure. Still he couldn't help feeling concerned; it was partly his fault that the man's mind was so clouded.  
If only things had gone differently in Vassa, Jarlaxle lamented. Perhaps he should apologize for not stopping things sooner. It couldn't hurt just for once admitting he had been wrong.

Yes, that's it; Ill just drop in, apologize and be gone in the blink of an eye. Jarlaxle made to leave the fire, but was caught in the grip of Athrogate's pointed stare.

The dwarf shook his head a firm no and Jarlaxle settled down once more. The dwarf was right in any case. Artemis needed to work through these things on his own. There could be no more prying, no more prodding, not if Jarlaxle wished to keep drawing breath, of this the drow was certain.

Jarlaxle stared into the flames once more and began to make a mental list of supplies for the journey to Comyr. The wind picked up just then, enough to stir the flames into a swirling dance, causing disjointed shadows to play over Athrogate's face.

Perhaps my efforts will prevail with this one where I failed with Artemis, Jarlaxle mused, as he fingered the broken pieces of the magic flute in his belt pouch. He let out a sigh and shook his head no, watching the play of light in the golden strands of his own hair.

The dwarf required a more forthright tactic; the subtle machinations he had tried to deploy with Artemis would bounce off Athrogate as sure as rain drops off an oiled cloak. With another shake of his head Jarlaxle let his thoughts go back to rations and magical tents.


	3. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO

Dwahvel Tiggerwillies sat at her desk drumming her short fingers against one plump rosy cheek. Spread out before here were the many reports and gathered bits of information that kept those fingers firmly on the pulse of Calimshan.  
The fingers of her other hand were busy running slowly down a column of cramped, tiny, coded script. Dwahvel blew out an exasperated breath as she neared the end of the parchment.

"Artemis Entreri, look what you have done, my friend," Dwahvel uttered the lament nearly every time she received particularly unsettling news. Which the way the streets were running, was nearly every day.

This time though things were worse than usual.  
It seemed the Wererat Guild had carved off another block of Basadoni territory that very evening, and as if that was not enough, the Rakers were planning an outright assault on the Basadoni Guild house sometime within the next tenday. The move was hardly surprising. Pasha Da'Daclan was furious over the stunt Entreri had pulled, and though Dwahvel had tried to smooth things over, it had not gone well.  
With the loss of nearly all of their lieutenants and the hasty retreat of the Drow, Hand had been left to govern the affairs of a crippled Basadoni Guild on his own. Through her many meetings with the man, Dwahvel had come to the conclusion that under normal circumstances Hand would have proven up to the task, but as it stood now, he was barely holding the Guild together.  
Dwahvel had thought things were as bad as they could get, but slowly things had started getting much worse. At first the Wererat Guild had been quiet; many had thought they had been wiped out entirely. But like the vermin they were the Wererats had found a way to survive. With in a few tendays, Lujan, their new self appointed leader, had swollen the ranks of the foul Guild to double what it had been before Artemis's departure.  
This was not such a daunting feat, considering that even the most wretched street dweller could be made into a more formidable foe with the lycanthropic disease flowing through their vines.

Dwahvel shuddered at the thought. Not since Dondon had another halfling taken on the foul disease. She asked a lot from her close-knit Guild, but asking one of her clan to join the ranks of the Wererats, even as a mole was not something she could bring herself to do. Not that she need a mole anyway, her information network was sound enough to flush out that particular Guild's closely guarded secrets. Dwahvel dismissed the troublesome Guild from her mind, albeit with some difficulty, and focused on the more pressing threat to the Basadonis.  
The Rakers attacks had been escalating over the past few tendays and she knew, as did Hand, that they would strike at the Basadoni Guild-house sooner or later. It had been only a matter of time, and now it appeared as if that time had run out.  
Their attacks had started as minor, street scuffles and then quickly escalated into shakedowns of Basadoni protected interests. From there it became more personal as Hand directed his Guild to strike back blow for blow.

Then hit contracts were put out on all visible Basadoni solders, thieves, and even some of their more profitable ladies of the night. The end result was that both Guilds were loosing talent faster than they could train there new recruits leaving both the Rakers and the Basadonis open to the less than subtle tactics of Lujan's Wererats.  
Pasha Wroning was working with Pook's old Guild to combat the growing problem brewing in the sewers, but doing so covertly. And while Dwahvel was the last one to scoff at covert measures, she also knew first hand that the subtle machinations of Pasha Wroning and Bodeau would not be enough.

Lujan was a crafty one and his Guild was much more entrenched than the others gave him credit for. Not only was he eating away at both Basadoni and Raker territory, he was also moving in on some smaller Guilds as well.  
Again she shook her head, trying to clear her mind of the Wererats. She needed to concentrate, needed to form a plan. She had a meeting with Hand coming up in just a few hours and he paid well for her advice.  
Dwahvel was having a very hard time remaining neutral in this struggle. She supposed it had to do with a sense of misplaced loyalty to the Basadonis. It was after all Entreri's Guild, albeit briefly, even if it had only been to serve as a human face for Bregan D'aerthe.

Still she couldn't help but sympathize with Hand. The Basadoni Guild had been one of the strongest Guilds in all of Calimshan for well over half a century; it would not do to see it fall. In some corner of her mind Dwahvel knew she had connected the state of the Basadoni Guild to the wellbeing of her friend Artemis Entreri. To let the Guild fall would be akin to abandoning her friend to the wolves. Well, Wererats in this case, but… again she shook her head and tried to concentrate on a plan of action.  
The time was fast approaching for Dwahvel to show her hand. She had been working subtly with the Basadonis from the start, but a front of neutrality did much to further her relations with the Rakers. With their planned attack looming over her, however, she thought perhaps it was time to play her cards. Still she had time, but not much, and if she and Hand could find no other options, she may have to declare her alliance. Throwing her weight behind the faltering Basadoni Guild was no small matter.  
The Halfling Guild was much, much larger than its meager facade suggested. The Copper Ante was just one of her many holdings. Openly declaring her alliance with Hand would, by default, mean disclosing how far her short fingers really stretched. And that was far indeed.

As if the thought had been plucked form her head, at that very moment, there came a distinctive knock at the door; a knock that announced news of the Guilds affairs in Memmon.  
Dwahvel waited for the runner to depart before refilling through the sheaf of papers. The Halfling Guild excelled at the information trade partly because of their great spy network, and partly because Dwahvel had a series of strategically placed magic mirrors within her holdings.

Through the mirrors they were able to swap the most up to date information form any location so long as someone was on the receiving end of the mirror. And someone always was, as halflings never run out of things to say to each other.  
Dwahvel's good humored smile became a thoughtful frown when she began deciphering the coded script however; something big had gone down in Memmon, it seemed. The temple of Selûne had been burned to the ground and by three foreigners too. Her frown became even more sour as she thought of the implications.  
The temple had provided a steady income for some of her thieves. Not only could a halfling earn a good living posing as a sick child, miraculously healed to the delight of a watching crowd, but there was also good coin to be had for those with nimble fingers, working over the clergy. The temple was also one of the largest consumers of her exotic incense, which she had shipped from a shady port under Waterdeep.  
Her mood brightened a bit when she learned that reconstruction was already underway. Then her face went through a gambit of expressions as she began to carefully read the descriptions of the three temple arsonists.  
A human, an elf, and a dwarf were all witnessed entering the temple and then fleeing the city as it burned to the ground. The human was described as elf like in height and dressed in all black with a small brimmed black hat. The elf had long golden hair and a huge floppy hat with a great big purple feather…  
Dwahvel stopped there and let the sheaf to fall to her desk as she realized just who brought that temple down.

"Artemis Entreri, what have you done, my friend?" She uttered the lament this time with much more feeling.

Artemis Entreri was truly at loss. Not since he was a child, and a very young one at that, had he cried. And never had he done so for so long, or as earnestly as he had the previous night. Never had he felt so unsure, so lost. Even as he cast his mind back to his first few days of freedom, wandering aimlessly on the surface after so long in the lightless city of Menzoberranzan, he knew the feeling was vastly different.  
He had nearly regained a since of purpose, he had just begun to understand what it meant to enjoy the simple pleasures of friendship, love, and companionship. And it was not the rosy portrait that Drizzt had made it out to be. Friends were capable of endless manipulations and Lovers carried daggers of betrayal.  
Artemis let out a breath that he only then realized he was holding, allowing those dark thoughts to pass with the exhalation. Dwahvel, there was still Dwahvel. She alone could prove exception to the rule. Perhaps she could teach me, could show me what it means to truly be a friend, he thought.  
No, it would be unfair to burden her with such a task. And he could hardly show up at the Copper Ante in such a state. A mad man, haunted with painful visions, howling in the night at phantoms of his own creation. No, he could not let her see him this way. Not as a broken man.  
Where would he go? He had left Memmon with out bothering to get supplies, he had not been thinking with a sound mind. Besides, he had grown used to traveling with Jarlaxle. That drow was capable of pulling a fine meal and an even finer vintage, literally out of his hat. Entreri chortled a bit at the memory in spite of himself.  
Entreri was a survivor, he knew he could not stay in the desert indefinitely, but he could survive there for some time at least. A tenday if need be, and longer if he could find a suitable oasis. He thought back to the very first time he had attempted to survive in the desert, back to when he was but a boy of thirteen.  
He had made it pretty far, nearly halfway to Memmon, shadowing a tribe of desert nomads. He had sustained himself mostly on the scraps he had found at the ruminates of their camps. He realized now that the nomads had left the food for him on purpose. They most likely would have taken him in had Basadoni's agents not caught up to him.  
Maybe it was time to repay that kindness, he mused. He had nowhere to go and locating the nomads should prove an easy task. He knew he could not speak their complicated dialect, so he would have to find another way of communicating his intentions.

So much the better, he thought, if I am to suffer the indignity of crying in the night like a frightened child at least I won't have to endure endless discussions about it.  
Artemis stood and snatched his fine black cloak off the ornately carved hat rack that stood near the entrance of the tent, another of Jarlaxle's bright ideas. He wrapped the cloak over his head and across his face, letting one end trail down his back and the other over his chest. He pulled the fabric down over his forehead until it nearly covered his eyes. Leaving his pack in the tent, Entreri took only his weapon belt out into the desert sun. He spoke the command word and placed the tiny tent in his belt pouch, then took a moment to look around.  
He had been traveling well off the main trade road, but near enough to keep his bearings. For even having spent most of his life between Calimport and Memmon, he could easily lose his way in such a barren landscape.

With that thought in mind Entreri set off on foot, deliberately putting his back to the trade way. Though he knew he could cover more ground with the Nightmare, he needed time. Time to sort through the pulsing knot of emotions that had gathered in his head.

He had traveled roughly two days on foot through the shifting desert sands before the landscape began to change. The rolling dunes gave way to broken rocky ground which provided an anchor for the stubborn desert dwelling plants.

Here and there small lizards darted from their perch on the weather worn boulders at the approach of the sun dazed man. Artemis Entreri made his way to one of the massive, cracked, reddish brown rocks and sat down, eager to be off his aching feet.  
Despite his caution, his face and neck were blistered and red. His lips were cracked and swollen; he winced in pain as his parched tongue brushed the corner of his mouth. Ever the stubborn one, Entreri had not bothered with the tent over his two day journey, proving to himself he could handle the harsh reality of the desert with out the benefit of food, water and shelter.

He was nearly at the end of his resolve, however. Much as he hated to admit it, he had grown soft, accustomed as he was to traveling with Jarlaxle and the drow's small luxuries.  
With lightning fast reflexes his hand darted out to snatch an overly curious lizard form its hiding place between a crack in the rock. Without a thought the assassin bit off the struggling creatures head, savoring the meager moisture it provided. He smiled bitterly as he pictured Jarlaxle's reaction to such an unsavory meal. An action he regretted sorely when his cracked lips began to bleed.  
The sun was just beginning to set and sky looked as if it were on fire. Violent shades of crimson and dusky orange stained the wispy blanket of clouds that hung like curtains in the vast blue heavens. The stark beauty of the desert sunset was not lost on Entreri; he took it all in and fed it to the pain in his heart. Somehow he knew that with each new beauty he discovered, the pain would become that much less.  
His stomach complained loudly in response to the meager meal, pulling him back from the breathtaking scene. Entreri looked around, desperate to find any sign of the nomads. He found none, at least none he could immediately register. As exhausted and dazed as he was, Artemis was having trouble concentrating on much of anything. His eyes kept loosing focus as he tried to take in his surroundings. Eventually he gave up, letting his gaze settle on the patch of ground between his feet.  
There he watched, as a line of tiny ants tried, but failed to bypass the many small pits that dotted their way. The pits, no doubt, were the homes of equally small creatures, waiting to trap and eat them.

Each time one of the ants slid down the loose sandy slope of a tiny crater, and franticly tried to climb back to join it's fellows, Entreri watched as its comrades moved on, uncaring, unconcerned for their brother's plight. So engrossed was he in the ants tiny drama he barely noticed the long shadows cast by the figures that had moved in to surround him.


	4. Chapter 3

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER THREE

Jarlaxle sat in a corner, his chair teetering precariously on two legs; his booted feet crossed at the ankles, perched atop the worn wood of a sturdy table. The common room of the Cloak and Dagger was not busy, nor was it lacking patrons, which suited the Drow just fine. Under normal circumstances Jarlaxle would have chosen a more comfortable establishment, somewhere in the Merchant district, but traveling with Athrogate, he found things were going to be far from normal.

On the last leg of their journey the dwarf finally made good on his threat and 'kissed' one of the Merchants camels. Needless to say they did not receive payment for their services. In fact, Jarlaxle had been hard pressed to avoid a fight.

In an effort to prevent any further conflict with their former employers, the two were staying well away form the Merchant district. And so it was that Jarlaxle had to make due in a more seedy section of town.

Even under the circumstance the drow was thoroughly enjoying himself. With the benefit of Agathas mask Jarlaxle was finally able to immerse himself in Myratmas fine Calishite culture. Seedy though is was, even the Cloak and Dagger offered new and exotic pleasures.

Jarlaxle inhaled deeply the aroma of his chosen beverage, a bold Calishite coffee with two fingers of delightful milky, buttery liquor. He sipped at it gingerly, not wishing to scald his tongue, as he took in the sights and sounds of the common room.

Every so often the musicians at the bar would strike up an almost eerie tune with their strangely shape stringed instruments and their ornately carved flutes. The music was enchanting, calling to mind the stark desert beauty and the huge domed palaces of Calimshan.

At the start of the tune, a small troupe of veiled and painted ladies would dance and whirl between the tables. Their wrists, ankles and midsections were adorned with bells and glittering fake coins that tinkled and chimed, adding a lovely rhythm to the music.

Yes, Jarlaxle was enjoying himself thoroughly. He had sent Athrogate off with a small pouch of coin to go and find his pleasures at one of Myratmas many brothels, and to be honest he was glad for the break. While he truly liked the dwarf, he was still a bit miffed over the camel incident and some time alone was just what he needed to cool his head.

Jarlaxle casually flicked a few silver pieces to the ladies as they twirled past and poured himself some more of the delightful coffee from a beautiful, if dented, copper pitcher with an ornately stamped spout. It seemed even the most mundane of things were made fabulous so long as they haled from Calimshan.

The thought evoked an image of Artemis and the drow couldn't help but wince as he stirred the liquor into his coffee. He let out a sigh and shook his head dismissing the man from his thoughts. This was a time to relax and enjoy, not a time to brood over emotional assassins.

Malehedectar skirted around the city of Myratma and entered through the south gate, closest to Memmon. Truly she was a bit nervous entering the city, for in the course of her long journey she had avoided most populated areas.

During her time with Gideon, she had no cause to hide her less than savory heritage, and so she had left her bone white hair un-colored for some years now. Being wholly an elf, but half drow was not an easy thing to come to terms with, but due mostly to her time with the wizard; she had made great strides in reconciling her feelings on the matter.

Even so with her matte gray skin, yellow red eyes, and stark white hair she had cause to worry as those distinctive features would mark her clearly as drow to most ignorant humans. As it was, she kept her hood up and her cloak pulled tightly around her as she made her way through one of Myratmas more colorful districts. A shrouded figure winding through the crowd would elect little if any notice as most people walking those seedy streets were similarly clad.

Malehedectar had sold her horse immediately upon entering Myratma; the beast would be of no further use to her, camels were far better suited to desert travel. Not that she would be traveling the whole of the Calim desert, LaValle had a contact in Memmon that would teleport her directly to Calimport. Still she had to make the two day journey to Memmon. But not for a few days at least, as there was much she needed to learn. It would not do to meet with LaValle wholly uninformed.

And so Malehedectar made her way to the infamous Cloak and Dagger. There would be news a plenty in the neutral Inn, for a price. The Cloak and Dagger was a place where even the most bitter of rivals could sit under the same roof. At least it had been when she had last been through Myratma.

A long standing agreement from every guild in Calimshan had kept the place neutral in an effort to further fuel their intrigue, she was sure. Whatever reason the Guilds had for the neutral meeting place, Malehedectar was glad for it. It wouldn't do to just waltz into a Basadoni interest after such a long absence. These things had to be done just right or one would wind up Kelp Enwalled.

Malehedectar scoffed at the notion, as she stopped at one of the stalls that lined the crowed street, only fools became Kelp Enwalled. Tactless fools, who had no head for intrigue, she thought as she purchased several pouches of colored pigment for her hair.

Truly she couldn't imagine herself, or any of Basadoni's agents ever being so careless as to wind up Guild-less. With her new purchases in hand she made her way across the thoroughfare and into the Cloak and Dagger.

Jarlaxle's interest was perked when a female patron walked through the door. The only female customer he had seen all day. And a lovely one at that, he summarized. Though the woman had her cloak pulled tightly about her, to hide her identity no doubt, it did little to hide her delicate and sensuously curved, almost elven figure.

An elf maid? Jarlaxle was almost giddy at the thought. Never had he bedded a surface elf. Oh but that would be ironic, sleeping with the most hated enemy of his race. He had heard of such couplings among the servants of Eilistraee and to a lesser extent the followers of Vhaeraun, but never had he given any thought as to what it would be like.

Surely it couldn't be better than bedding a Dragon, but there was only one way to be certain. He was getting way ahead of himself, he knew. What if she had a crooked nose? What if she was missing teeth? Gods, how he disliked bedding a woman with missing teeth!

The thought that the elf maid may not wish to bed him at all, never crossed his mind, as he casually moved into a better eavesdropping position near the bar. He also realized that he was in need of another carafe of that delightful liquor. Jarlaxle shrugged, ah well, killing two spiders with one thrown dagger, this is a lucky day indeed.

Malehedectar scanned the sparse crowd for any familiar face, or anyone advertising a Guild affiliation. She was not too surprised to see neither as she made her way to the bar. The tension in the streets and the ease with which the Merchants walked them spoke volumes on the state of things in Calimshan.

The Guilds were at war and each of them had called their agents home it seemed. A few well placed coins would fill in the rest, Malehedectar knew. She drew out a few gold pieces form her coin pouch to grab the inn keeper's attention.

"Yess, yess, how can Aria help you?" the short skinny man inquired.

"My road has been a long one, Master Aria, and I am in need of a bath, a fine meal, and a room for the night. In that order too, if they are to be had." Malehedectar spoke through her mask. Her voice, light and melodic not a bit muted by the thin fabric.

"Yess, yess Miss…" Aria prompted.

Malehedectar toyed with the notion of giving Basadoni, or even Entreri as her surname. If only to see the skinny man's eyes go wide. She knew her own name would fly well below notice here in Myratma, Calimport too most likely. She had been gone quite a long time and people in her business never received much acclaim.

Fighters and Assassins make their names known in blood, thieves on the other hand… 'If ever a rogue was well know for their thieving, than they be a very poor thief indeed', so the saying went.

"Malehedectar" she replied. "My room, Master Aria?"

"Yess, yess dis way. Many rooms Aria has. Come and I shall show dem. We discuss de price on de way yess?"

Malehedectar followed the Innkeeper to the back of the common room and up a rickety flight of stairs.

"Yes the price, I'm sure we can come to a mutually profitable arrangement, Master Aria."

She felt her heart flutter just a bit when she spoke the subtle request for information. This was it; truly she was on her way home.

Aria seemed surprised at the request. Surprised and delighted. He smiled wide showing off more than one grey tooth. The skinny man bobbed his head happily and nearly clapped his hands.

Malehedectar couldn't help but picture a desert lizard warming up for its mating dance as she waited for the silly man to reply.

"Yess, yess, Aria knows much, it has been some time since Aria has seen your kind here Miss. Give us some time and we shall have dat which you seek yess?"

"And what is it I seek?"

Aria's face fell as he mulled the question over, but he brightened as soon as he caught on to the banter.

Things did not look good, if an idiot like Aria was running the Cloak and Dagger, she thought.

"News of the Guilds. Yess, yess, Aria knows and so shall you. Juss give us some time yess?"

"Three days." Malehedectar placed a small pouch of coins into the man's hand.

"Yess, yess three days an you will know all dare iss to know."

I highly doubt that, she thought.

"And Master Aria, don't forget my bath."

"Yess I send da boy up right away Miss." Aria skittered off down the stairs hollering to someone in his native Calishite the whole way down.

He did send 'the boy' up with the bath water after only a short while, though any one with half a brain could tell the skinny tanned boy was at best, a middle aged halfling. Malehedectar pretended not to notice as she mixed the color pigments into a workable paste.

Jarlaxle was mildly disappointed as he sauntered back to his table, liquor in hand. He had not yet glimpsed the face of his mate to be, but the elf maid's voice was just as melodic and whimsical as it should be. He sat down and poured himself another mug of coffee, or at least he would have, but it seemed he was out of that as well. Surely the liquor would taste just as fine on its own, he thought and he poured himself a generous shot instead.

Evening meal was bound to be served sometime, and sometime soon he hoped. Not that he was very hungry; he just wanted to see her again. He thought perhaps he was being a bit hasty in committing so to this one elf maid.

He was on the surface after all, and here there would be plenty of elf maids to be had, he mused. Well not here, not in Myratma of all places. No it was fate. Fate had drawn them together. Surely Lady Luck has smiled upon Jarlaxle D'aerthe this day, he thought. But what he didn't think was, perhaps he had had too much to drink.

The Deserts Milk was very potent liquor and even Calishites partook of it sparingly. Jarlaxle had consumed enough to put down a camel, or knock out a young dwarf at least.

Malehedectar had just finished toweling off her hair when she heard the chimes for evening feast. Even so she took her time examining herself in the chipped, brass framed mirror. Her hair was now a strange blue purple color, the result of mixing several of the pigment powders she had bought. But her hair was not the object of her scrutiny.  
Even after well over ten years, she still had trouble believing that her face was forever healed. She ran a finger over her perfect, if a bit upturned nose. For sixty years there had been naught but a twisted lump of melted flesh there.

Her cheeks and chin too had suffered; indeed everything below her eyes had been marred by acid. Her face had resembled nothing so much as an ink drawing which the rain had caused to run. Never would she forget the pain, or the man who had healed her.

She let out a sigh and tied her silk mask behind her head. Gideon would have tisked and chided her over it, but she felt infinitely more comfortable behind the cool black silk of her mask.

Malehedectar went down to get her meal, intending to bring it right back up to her room, for it was a bit difficult to eat through cloth of any kind. But as she made her way to the bottom of the stairs she nearly ran straight into possibly the strangest elf she had ever seen.

Entreri knew he was in trouble well before he looked up. The long shadows at his feet placed at least two men at his back. There had to be at least six all together, he thought, likely there were three in front of him and a few out to either side.

With only a moment's hesitation Entreri propelled himself to his feet, drawing Charon's Claw as he went. He crouched down low bringing the blade out behind and wiping it around to the front, completing a wide circle. He was not trying to score a hit, just hoping to keep his opponents at bay long enough to come up with some kind of strategy.

As he straightened into a balanced fighting stance, his vision nearly went black as spots danced before his eyes and dizziness assailed him. Weariness form two days without food and water in the brutal desert sun finally catching up to him. Even so he gritted his teeth and unsheathed his jeweled dagger, blinking furiously to clear his vision.

The dagger came up just in time to block a well placed thrust from a hardened wood quarter staff. He worked his weapons through a series of defensive maneuvers as he shifted his stance to better assess the situation.

It was as he thought; there were indeed six of them. All shrouded in sandy colored fabric and all wielding quarter staffs, though he could see weapon hilts protruding from their sides.

Even the most seasoned wood was no match for Charon's Claw, but as Entreri lopped off inch after inch of the pathetic weapons he could not get close to their wielders. The men worked together with a careful precession, two or three engaging the assassin directly and the others, taking cheap shots at his back and legs. Every time Entreri lunged forward with his weapons his opponents would simply move farther out of reach.

Under normal circumstances Artemis Entreri would have made short work of all six of these men, but as it was he was having trouble just staying afoot. Wave after wave of dizziness assailed him and try as he might he could not banish the spots from his vision. Only a copious amount of adrenalin kept him from fainting dead at their feet.

Just as he thought it couldn't get any worse a small dart whizzed past his thigh to stick in the sand near the foot of one of his attackers.

"Damn!" he shouted as he reversed his grip on Charon's claw and swung the blade around himself calling up a wall of black ash.

A stream of shouts and orders flowed form the men in a dialect Entreri could not follow. Just as he made to crash through his visual barrier no less than eight darts flew through the ash to embed themselves in the assassin.

Artemis staggered out of the ash with his weapons leading. Already he was breaking out in a heavy sweat. He could feel a fiery burning spreading out form each of the puncture wounds. Poisoned, he knew he didn't have much time. Still he strode on, determined to take out as many as he could, but it was as if all six of the men vanished. He couldn't even make out their tracks.

Entreri's head was swimming, his limbs felt leaden as he commanded his legs to carry him onward. He took one step then another and fell to his knees. He sheathed his dagger, but stuck Charon's Claw into sand. Presenting its hilt to whoever would dare claim the weapon. His last thought was a vengeful one as he sank into oblivion, landing face first in the hot desert sand.


	5. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

Even in death, he was surprised to find he could not escape his emotional daemons. Entreri woke, thrashing and screaming form a series of vivid and terrible nightmares. Still exhausted and groggy form the darts it took him a few moments to realize that he was not dead at all.

As the realization made it's self known so too did his physical condition. His puncture wounds still burned and every fiber of his being felt abused and strained. His head was pounding so violently he was seeing double. He registered that he had been stripped to the waist, and brought into a tent. He blinked repeatedly, but still could not clear his vision. And soon he was unconscious once more.

Several hours later Artemis woke again, this time from a deep coma like slumber. He did not sit up; he tried to not even alter his breathing. Wherever he was it seemed safe at the moment, but it was best to glean any kind of information he could before someone was alerted to the fact he was awake.

He opened his eyes just a crack and took in his situation. As far as he could tell he was on a palette of soft camel skins inside a well made desert tent. He turned over, still trying to fane sleep, but failed miserably as his eyes snapped wide in alarm.

Right next to him sat the most sun weathered old man he had ever seen. If I am being held captive then this old man must be far more powerful than he seems. Or my captors are far too ignorant of who they are holding, Entreri thought.

Most likely the old man was a spell caster of some kind. Without his weapons and gauntlet he was at this man's mercy it seemed. Entreri didn't like that idea at all. Abruptly he sat up to face the old man, or he tried to.

The sudden movement brought on a profound vertigo and a hammering in his skull. Entreri had to settle for propping himself up on his elbows and casting a murderous glare at the man.

The old man seemed startled at first when he noticed his charge was awake, but then he became elated. The man clapped his hands and let out a belly laugh that shook his slight frame. Slapping his boney knees, he called out in his dialect to someone just outside the tent.

A scrawny tanned youth entered a moment later bringing a large shallow bowl of water. He placed it in the old man's hands and hastily fled the tent.

The man gestured for Entreri to sit up and grinned enthusiastically as the beleaguered assassin struggled to comply.

"What is so funny Old Man?" Entreri started to bark, but all he managed to get out was a gravel filled snarl before he was overcome with a fit of coughing.

The wizened old Shaman just laughed again as he thrust the bowl at Entreri. Ever leery the assassin sniffed at the water in the shallow clay bowl. Once he was sure it was not poisoned he brought it to his lips and took a deep draught. Entreri savored the sweet taste for a long moment, but as he went to swallow his throat seemed to close.

His eyes went wide as he coughed and sputtered, he managed to inhale some of it, while most of the water shot out his nose. With quickness that in no way matched his aged face the old man snatched up the bowl, before the assassin could drop it and slosh water all over the tent.

The man held the bowl over his head balanced on three fingers and used his other hand to wag at the sputtering man. His face screwed up in concentration and then the old man clearly said, 'Slow' in badly accented common.

Entreri's eyes narrowed to slits, "So you speak common?" It was more an accusation than a question.

The old man's eyes sparkled with mirth and he just went on smiling. He gave no hint that he understood Entreri's words at all.

Artemis shook his head, took the bowl and drank again. This time more slowly as he looked around. His cloak and weapons belt were at the foot of the camel skins. Charon's Claw, his gauntlet and dagger were all present. That fact did little to put him at ease though, as he thought back to his capture by Master Kane.

He shuddered involuntarily as he searched his body and mind for anything akin to the Quivering Palm. He felt none, but was still far form unconcerned. Anyone who could handle Charon's Claw and not have the flesh seared form their bones was a powerful foe indeed. His attention snapped back to the old man at once.

The Shaman wore a simple brown tunic and a few necklaces of polished bone. He smiled again, an action that made his leathery wrinkled skin pull taught giving him an almost youthful appearance. His dark eyes sparkled with merriment, or insanity, Entreri was not sure which.

The Shaman pointed to his chest suddenly and said, "Abrhama."

He cocked his head and extended his skinny neck thrusting his face toward Artemis and then repeated the name Abrhama, this time gesturing to his face.

"So, your name is Abrhama, I take it?" Entreri said his scratchy voice, dripping venom at the silly old man.

Artemis quickly regretted saying anything at all, as Abrhama let out another howl of laughter and clapped his bony hands. Again the Shaman pointed to himself saying, 'Abrhama' in his deep jovial voice. Then he pointed to the assassin raising his white eyebrows in a question.

Entreri sighed deeply, this is going to be a long day, he thought as he pointed to himself and said, "Artem.."

He never got to finish as he was cut off by another peel of Abrhama's laughter. This time accompanied by almost gleeful shouts of, 'Artem!'

"Is", Entreri said when Abrhama finely calmed down. "It's Artem-is, Artem-is, get it?"

"Haahaahha! IS IS!" Abrhama replied. He clapped the assassin on the back and pointed to the small pile near the foot of the makeshift bed.

"Atrem," he said as he stood up. "Artem, come!" Abrhama called as he left the tent.

Abrhama was indeed elated. The Shaman always was when one of his many visions proved true.

Malehedectar had to stop short, causing her to overbalance and slip. Her rump hit the last stair with a thud and she nearly bit her tongue as her jaw snapped shut. Her glare shot molten daggers at the elf, who was now extending a hand to help her to her feet.

"My apologies fair lady, I did not see you there. Please allow me to buy your meal this evening, to make up for this unfortunate accident," Jarlaxle's voice was pure velvet as he helped the maid to her feet.

Malehedectar was on guard in an instant. She took his hand, though she did not trust this strange elf in the least. His sweet smile did not match the glittering blue of his one, sly, eye. Not to mention all the bright gems and trinkets that jingled about his person, or the strange fellow's wide-brimmed hat, plumed with a diatryma feather of all things.

What kind of elf would keep, let alone flaunt, a feather from an Underdark bird? Not one that wished her any kind of good will, she thought. No, any one of those things could harbor fell magic, possibly all of them. Malehedectar wanted noting more than to be far away from this eccentric elf. She allowed him to pull her to her feet then roughly snatched her hand away.

"Your apology is accepted, but your gracious offer is unnecessary." Malehedectar said as she tried to step around the elf.

Jarlaxle side stepped and barred the elf maid's way, "Oh, but I must insist Lady…"

"Malehedectar.", she said with obvious irritation creeping into her voice.

The flamboyant elf bowed low taking off his great hat and sweeping it out in front of him. As he straightened he spun the hat over his head with a flick of his wrist so that it landed gracefully atop his golden hair.

"Jarlaxle D'aerthe at your service, Lady Malehedectar."

Jarlaxle took in more of his elf maid's features and quickly noticed something was amiss. Her face was obscured below the eyes, and those eyes were most intriguing. Crimson flecked yellow orbs that complemented the dark grey tone of her skin, but the odd pigmented color in her hair did nothing for the dusky complexion of her skin.

It took just a moment longer for Jarlaxle to realize that she was no elf maid at all. Not a surface elf in any case, no he was dealing with a half drow, elf female, he was sure.

"My, my, you're half drow." Jarlaxle heard himself say.

Quickly his hand shot up to cover his mouth. Half embarrassed and half surprised. Never did he let things slip like that. Not unless much fore-planning had went into it, at the very least.

Malehedectar had known that any elf would be quick to guess her heritage. Humans were most easily fooled after all, but never had she encountered an elf with less tact. Usually they were content to cast veiled barbs, or suspicious looks. She glanced around insuring no one had over heard the blunt assessment.

"My, how perceptive of you, Master Jarlaxle. Now why don't you keep that little gem to yourself?" She said in an icy tone.

Jarlaxle's drink addled mind was still quick to seize the advantage, its tangled webs spinning overtime.

"I suppose I could be persuaded to keep this information to myself, if My Lady would be so kind as to join me for evening feast." Jarlaxle put on his best disarming smile as he extended his arm to his lady.

Malehedectar eyed him like she was looking for a good place to stick a dagger. As much as she hated taking off her mask in public, she knew the attention a drow, even a half drow would bring. She had no choice.

She took his arm and whispered sweetly in his ear, "Oloth plyn dos."

It was a fairly mild curse, as she did not want to overly offend him on the off chance he know the drow tongue. Still she hoped he would find the harsh language it a bit unnerving.

Jarlaxle laughed musically at her sweetly spoken curse and before he could stop himself he replied, "Far better for the light to take us both, my Lady."

Malehedectar's eyes narrowed. This was no ordinary elf, to be sure. She drew in closer to him as they made their way to his table. She took in his angular features and his gem-studded, red leather eye patch. Jarlaxle D'aerthe, the name seemed like it should ring bells, set off smoke powder bombs even, but she just couldn't place it.

His table was already set with a meal for two and what looked like three empty carafes of Desert's Milk. Malehedectar smiled. Dangerous as this Jarlaxle undoubtedly was, he was still a stranger in this land. Judging by the empties, it seemed no one had informed him about the potent liquor.

As they sat, Malehedectar reluctantly pulled the dark silk of her mask up over her hair so it sat on her head like a kerchief. A bar maid passed nearby just at they sat down and Jarlaxle promptly flagged her over.

"Do bring another carafe of this wonderful liquor," he said with a smile.

The bar maid's eyes went wide as she took in the empties. She opened her mouth to say something, most likely a warning, but Malehedectar cut her off.

"Yes please do. My Lord has had quite a start on me, but I'll have him under the table before the night's end."

Jarlaxle slapped the table and let out a rare heart felt laugh. He had the bare inkling that maybe he had had enough. But, truly would one more bottle between future lovers do any real harm? She was only half ferry elf, but he couldn't recall having ever bedded one of those either.

"Do tell, my new, and most trusted friend, what brings such an exotic flower to the harsh deserts of Calimshan?" Jarlaxle asked hoping to break the ice with some polite conversation.

Mal's eyes took on a darker shade at the phrase 'most trusted friend'. Wherever this elf came from they must be well versed in drow culture, she thought. Skull Port perhaps, but she was sure she would have at least remembered hearing his name. D'aerthe, D'aerthe, it was so familiar.

"My father was murdered and so I journey home to see to his affairs." She replied casually, as she picked over her spiced meat and vegetable dish.

"I see, my condolences, dear Malehedectar." Jarlaxle was willing to go along with her story, though he knew it to be only half true.

"You said you journey? May I ask where this journey will end? I know of few elven strongholds south of the Calim desert."

Malehedectar smiled and began to spin her tale. She was truthful for the most part, leaving out some of the more important details. She went on to tell of her time with Gideon in Myth Drannor all the while watching Jarlaxle drink more and more of the potent desert liquor.

After some small prompting she got Jarlaxle talking about his adventures in the Bloodstone Lands with a partner whom he would not name, no matter how much he drank.

The more she talked with him the more she began to warm to his eccentric charm. It was such a shame that he would most likely be killed and relived of all his fantastic possessions.

Mal had noticed many hopeful glances at the unsuspecting elf. By now it was an open secret in the fast growing crowd that this flamboyant, possibly wealthy; elf had consumed enough of the Desert's Milk to make him an easy target.

Just as the thought entered her mind, three over eager, young sell-swords sauntered up behind the merry elf. New guild members on their way to Calimport, no doubt.

Making a rash decision Malehedectar stood and flung her cloak out to the side, exposing the jeweled hilt of her dagger. She cast a dark glare at the would-be ruffians and savored their reactions.

The jeweled dagger was still well known it seemed. Even after so long, fear of the dreaded Artemis Entreri was still a powerful weapon. The three tuffs nearly knocked each other over as they fled the Cloak and Dagger. No doubt they would be flapping their lips eagerly at another nearby tavern.

"Why don't you accompany me to my room, Master Jarlaxle, so we may continue this delightful conversation?" Malehedectar gestured to the stairs.

It was then that she noted Jarlaxle was not as unprepared as she assumed. Drunk as he was, the elf had still managed to produce five gleaming daggers in each hand, though from where, Mal had not the foggiest idea.

He quickly stowed the daggers away, his smile rapidly waning. His one eye fixed for a moment on Entreri's dagger sheathed at her hip. Jarlaxle stood, knocking his chair off balance; he made a grab for it, but missed and nearly stumbled. He cursed himself for letting his guard down. This woman somehow managed to get Entreri's dagger! It was no forgery of that, Jarlaxle was sure. He had been uncomfortably close to the weapon on more than a few occasions and he knew he could pick that blade out of a dragon's hoard.

Malehedectar came around the table and held out her arm to the elf. This was going to be a long night. He had better be worth the trouble too, she thought. Because once word got out about the dagger there would be no end to her troubles until she made it to the Basadoni Guild house. Jarlaxle accepted the lady's arm for support as they made their way upstairs.

"My, that is an unusual blade. Wherever did you acquire such a fine weapon?" Jarlaxle's voice betrayed him with a slight waver.

That small slip told her all she needed to know. Jarlaxle knew Entreri, or he knew the man's blade, at the very least.

"It was a gift." Malehedectar said as she pushed Jarlaxle into her room.

"A gift from my father" She continued as she trapped and barred the door.

"And one of a set" She said with an air of finality.

Jarlaxle's eyes went wide as he digested her words. He sat down on the large, if saggy, bed and his mouth ran away with him once more.

"Basadoni! Entreri, that bastard, never mentioned the dagger was one of a set!"

"Ah, so you do know Artemis!" Mal declared.

"Know him, Ha! He was my partner for well over a year. It's a small world, a small world indeed, my dear." Jarlaxle's revelations were cut short by a loud wet burp and a horrid sensation in his gut.

Malehedectar raced to get the chamber pot as Jarlaxle keeled over and vomited.

"God's be dammed!" Mal cursed as bits of Jarlaxle's dinner splattered on to her leather boots.

Jarlaxle heaved again as his stomach clenched and twisted. Oh sweet Loth, I've been poisoned, he thought. Though he knew it to be irrational, as he had several trinkets that warded him form such things.

Suddenly a purple light flashed at his neck and sent a wave of icy magic through his body. Oh the irony, he mused, as he heaved once again and nearly wiped his mouth with a flouncy white sleeve.

"Oh no you don't!" Malehedectar snatched the hand away and roughly shoved a wet rag into his other.

"It's bad enough having that stink in the chamber pot. I'll not share my room with an elf that reeks of vomit!"

Jarlaxle flashed a smile, but his strength was rapidly waning. The parapet at his throat was one of his more powerful protections and while it had sobered him up quite a bit, it had also left him extremely drained. He was in need of rest, and badly.

"Perhaps another time my dear, but I really must be getting to my bed." Jarlaxle stood, and quickly sat down again, his legs had betrayed him.

Malehedectar stood over the elf and grabbed his oversized collar with both hands, tilting his head up so she could look into his one blue eye.

"No. We shall finish our conversation. Tell me what you know of Artemis Entreri!" Mal nearly cringed at the desperation in her voice.

"Entreri…" the elf muttered as his blue orb rolled up into its socket and his head began to loll on his shoulders.

"Damn you Jarlaxle D'aerthe!" She shouted in his face as she shook him violently.

Malehedectar released his collar and smirked vindictively as he fell to the bed, crushing his great feathered hat. She took a few deep, calming breaths before deciding she could at least hang his hat on the pegs for him. As she yanked at the brim, however she felt something give way.

Mal felt her stomach sink. She thought perhaps she had snapped the leather band that secured the elf's eye-patch in place. A hand went up to her face. Well, she thought, it's not like I haven't seen this sort of thing before. Jarlaxle was out cold, she could repair it and slip it back over his head and the oblivious elf would never know. She gave the hat one final tug and sure enough the eye-patch came with it… so too did Agatha's mask. Jarlaxle's black, drow, face was greeted with a sharp intake of breath.

"By Loth's eight legs!" Malehedectar exclaimed.

Seeing Jarlaxle in his native drow flesh had finally snapped the loose threads of a memory into place, she could have kicked her self for not realizing sooner.

"Jarlaxle D'aerthe, of Bregan D'aerthe, of Menzoberranzan." She muttered the title, still clutching the drow's hat.

Jarlaxle's red eyes fluttered open at the announcement of his title, just long enough for him to see Malehedectar don his hat. She leaned over him with a toothy smile.

"My, but I bet Bregan D'aerthe is missing its Captain." She made sure to put as much menace in her voice as she could and was pleased to see a reaction.

Jarlaxle reached feebly for a wand that would take him to Kimmuriel, but his hand was roughly batted aside.

"Oh no you don't! You'll answer my questions before you go, that is, if I decide to let you go." Mal nearly screamed when his eyes rolled up again.

In truth she had no plans of hurting him. If anything she was more than a bit unnerved by his presence in Myratma. If Jarlaxle was here, would all of Bregan D'aerthe be lurking nearby as well? No matter, if the mercenary company was here, she would have been dead three times over by now, she thought.

Quickly Malehedectar went about making Jarlaxle more comfortable. She was careful not to say a word, or make any unnecessary movements. It would not do to set off some magical item and kill them both.

In short order Jarlaxle was stripped to the waist, his tight leather trousers loosened a bit at the strings, for comfort. She lined his tall black boots near hers at the foot of the bed and hung the rest of his possessions on the row of pegs near the door. It would unnerve the drow far less to have his things in plane view when he came out of his stupor.

Jarlaxle was roused a short while later by a cold wet cloth running over his, hot, bald head. His eyes focused on a look of genuine concern from his elf maid's face. A vision that made him sigh in relief.

"How long was I out?" Jarlaxle groaned.

"A few hours. You are lucky those trinkets of yours did their work, I've seen many a stranger to this land poison themselves with that liquor." Malehedectar said as she reached for a mug on the bedside table.

"And I owe my life to the kindness of Lady Malehedectar of Basadoni guild, or was it just my ever-present, unwavering good luck?" Jarlaxle smiled weakly.

"Call it what you will _My Captain_, but fate has played no small part in this seemingly chance encounter." Mal handed him a mug of what looked for all the world like thick congealing blood.

"Drink this it'll help with your head."

Jarlaxle took the proffered cup and sniffed its contents dubiously. "What have we here, another Calishite beverage? I think I'll pass." Jarlaxle made to set the mug down.

"It's called a bloody Tess and you'll drink it down!"

Jarlaxle noted the irritation in her voice and thought it best not to press the issue. Besides, she would hardly have played nursemaid to his drunken foolishness, only to poison him now.

"Bottom's up then." Jarlaxle nearly choked on the thick vegetable puree tinged with strong whiskey, as his stomach tried it's best to rebel.

He sat the empty mug on the small table with a shaky hand and leaned back into the pillows.

"Fate is indeed, a cruel mistress it seems." He said with a grimace, willing his stomach to relax.

"No, Loth is a cruel mistress. I suggest you tell me, and now, what brought you out of your dark hole, as I have no love for spider kissers." Malehedectar snapped.

"Well, I suppose I found the scheming of Menzoberranzan a bit tedious, dreadfully boring even. Bregan D'aerthe is not with me if that is what you are asking. As for kissing spiders, you'll have no such luck I'm afraid. I don't seem to have any with me at the moment," he gestured to his bare chest to drive his point home.

"Why, you teasing, little bastard! I see not even a brush with death can put a clamp on that silver tongue of yours." Mal managed a tight smile.

"Are all assassins form Calimport possessed of such charming pillow talk, or am I just extremely lucky?" Jarlaxle closed his eyes and let out an irritated sigh.

"The only luck you seem to posses, my_ khal abbil_, is that you still are able to draw breath. The Artemis Entreri I know would have cut out your tongue and watched as you drown in your own blood. Now tell me where he IS!"

Jarlaxle took a deep breath. This was not going to be easy. She would likely meet her death at her blade's twin if she faced him, determined as she was to seek vengeance on her 'father's' killer.

"Malehedectar, please listen to me. The Artemis Entreri you knew is dead, he told me so himself just before we parted ways."

She eyed him with a cold intensity, a look he knew all too well, only coming from the brooding assassin instead. It was unsettling to say the least.

"Go on, I'm listening." Mal said, her voice was cold and deadly as she pulled his eye-patch over her head to cover her left eye.

She unsheathed her jeweled dagger and moved to the edge of the bed, uncomfortably close to Jarlaxle.

"You had best leave noting out, if you do…" she used the point of the dagger indicate her covered eye. "You know, I'll know, and I cannot promise I shall be as patient as Entreri obliviously was."

Jarlaxle let out a self-deprecating chuckle, "I see your concern over my well being, in no way hindered you from becoming acquainted with my possessions."

"Not in the least."

"Well, you may as well get comfortable. It's a very long story and one I'm not sure you will wish to hear."

"Try me." She gestured with the blade once more.


	6. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

Dwahvel didn't know if she should laugh, or cry. Artemis Entreri was back in Calimshan, possibly riding through the Calim desert this very second.

The moment she had learned of his escapade in Memmon she had sent a runner to Hand. The man was thrilled to learn of his Pasha's emanate arrival but, she knew he would be the only one aside from herself that felt that way.

It was common knowledge that Artemis Entreri brought only ruin, death, and chaos. As a rule, nearly all of Calimport held its breath every time the man set foot in the city.

This time it would be different. Far form waiting and watching with bated breath, Pasha Da'Daclan, Pasha Wroning, and Pasha Bodeau would all, most likely, ally against him. Not to mention, the wrath Lujan's Wererats held for the assassin.

No, none of them would take Entreri's return lightly.

Though it was known Basadoni's fall was due to a dispute between the guild's hidden powers, it was still unknown to nearly all that those hidden powers were, in fact, drow. It was a good thing too, Dwahvel thought, else a huge price would be on Entreri's head as well. All kinds of nefarious characters were tolerated in Calimshan, but not drow, and certainly not a small army of them.

From her reports, she had learned that Entreri had split company and was on his way to Calimport alone. That at least, was good, but it had been days since her spies had placed him leaving Memmon.

"He should be here by now." She mused aloud.

Dwahvel was pacing her study, carefully though, as to avoid making a rut in her new Turmish rug. In her last meeting with Hand, they had gone over defense strategies to ward against the Rakers pending attack. Now it was on her to misinform on those carefully laid strategies to Da'Daclan's lieutenant, whom she was supposed to meet within the hour. She knew what to say, she had it all prearranged, but her mind was stuck on Entreri.

"He should be here by now," she said again. Dwahvel snapped her short fingers, "That's it; I'm sending runners to take him in!"

It would not do for Artemis to simply appear in her study, not when such delicate matters needed her attention. There came a series of small taps followed by a loud knock that nearly had her jumping out of her skin.

"Yes, it's open," she called as soon as she had calmed down.

Ever since learning of the assassin's destination she had been jumping at nearly every small noise. She was his friend, she didn't fear the man… much, she just didn't want to be caught off guard.

"News from the Cloak and Dagger" Vittands, her secretary stated as he handed her a sheaf of parchment.

Dwahvel looked perplexed as she reached for the message.

"One of our holding's in Myratma," he clarified.

"Oh yes… it's just been so long since anything worth hearing came out of that place," she replied, her cheeks reddening.

"Well not any more. This should mix things up once it hit's Calimport." Vittands turned to leave.

"Wait. Send out some runners, off the main road, and all the way to Memmon if need be, just find Entreri and bring him in. He should have gotten hear by now." Dwahvel couldn't hide the concern in her voice.

"Don't worry, we'll find him. He may not be the most popular man in Calimshan, but he sure is one of the most powerful to call a friend." Vittands gave her a warm, assuring smile.

"Good, keep me informed." Dwahvel turned her attention to the message.

"By Tymora's twirling dice!" she exclaimed and raced to the door, after Vittands.

"Get me LaValle, right away! And don't let him give any of his excuses." Dwahvel called down the hall, her head sticking out of her study door.

"Yes, right away Dwahvel," Vittands said with a suppressed giggle, never breaking stride.

Artemis had to shield his eyes form the blinding desert sun. He had followed Abrhama out of the comfortable darkness of the tent and out into the makeshift village. He would have liked for his presence to remain unnoticed for as long as possible, but Abrhama was having none of it.

"Artem! Haahahaah! Artem!" The Shaman called to everyone they passed.

He was greeted with smiles and friendly waves, but Artemis Entreri kept his hands near the hilts of his weapons anyway. He had no idea where he was, or how he even got there. He could only assume these were the nomads he had been searching for, but he was beginning to think that had been a stupid idea.

"Abrhama, it's IS. ArtemIS!" he shouted again at the crazy old man.

"Ah ha ha yes, IS IS!" Abrhama happily shouted back.

Finely, they stopped near a cook fire, tended my three tanned, dark eyed, women.

"IS! IS!" Abrhama shouted at them.

The poor women looked confused for a moment then began chattering in their complicated tongue at the Shaman. A long moment later, Abrhama handed Entreri another shallow bowl, this time filled with a thick stew and two circles of flat bread.

"IS", Abrhama declared as Entreri studied the food.

The look Artemis gave the man, spoke clearly that the assassin thought him to be feebleminded, or crazy.

"IS?" Artemis ventured.

"Ah Hahhah!" Abrhama clapped his hands and started off again.

Entreri ate, using the flat bread to scoop the stew into his mouth, careful to get none on his face, as he noted the yellow stain the sauce left on his fingers. Everything, the stew, the bread, even the water he had earlier was delicious. Never had he tasted anything like the fair they had in this village.

The transient village consisted of several large brightly colored tents, and many smaller sandy brown ones, he assumed to be the primary dwellings. There were camels in various groupings tethered to a few stunted palms. Here and there men and women in fantastic, colorful, garb gathered together at cook fires, or sat twisting intricate designs in each others long, dark hair. A great deal of the men, were naked to the waist and painted with bright patterns, the meaning of which Entreri could not fathom.

Bursts of strange music came and went, among cries of joy and much laughter. Artemis followed Abrhama outside the main circle of the sprawling camp until they came upon a group of sand swathed men, and a few women.

All of them, vastly different form their fellows in that their garb was plane, designed to blend in with the desert landscape. Their hair flowed loose and none sported the bright paint, or any of the colorful adornments he had seen in the village.

Abrhama went about chatting them up, and Entreri used the time to finish his meal. After a few moments Abrhama suddenly proclaimed, 'Artem!'

Artemis Entreri then met the angry gazes of the 'sand warriors', as he had chosen to call them. He had known as soon as he had laid eyes on their sandy garb that these were the ones who had ambushed him. His first reaction had been anger, but soon it softened as he remembered Charon's Claw.

"My sword!" Entreri called out in sudden alarm, "Abrhama, did anyone touch my sword?" Artemis held out the silk covered hilt of Charon's Claw and pointed to the sand warriors.

Abrhama's smile became a thoughtful frown as he tried to find the words. "Not touch, evil sword! Dark warrior, Artem has many bad spirits," he said finally.

Entreri was caught off guard, so surprised was he at Abrhama's words he almost didn't catch the quarter staff one of the sand warriors threw at him. He dropped his bowl and caught the weapon quickly though. Abrhama, again almost cat like in his reaction, snatched the bowl before it hit the hard packed sand.

The old man cast an incredulous look at the assassin and muttered something akin to 'This man must really hate our dishes' in his native tongue.

As soon as Abrhama moved away the sand warriors closed in. Entreri was hard pressed; it had been a long, long time since he had used a staff as a weapon. But with attacks coming in form all sides he jogged his memory thoroughly.

Artemis gripped the staff in the middle and used each end to parry two attacks simultaneously. He yanked the weapon hard to the side and using the staff's momentum he let the polished wood slide through his loosened grip. His grip tightened on one end and he wiped the unwieldy weapon in a wide arc, smashing one warrior in the shoulder.

With out missing a beat he reversed his momentum and slashed a second brutally in the thigh. He gripped the staff in the middle and assumed an awkward, but useful stance. With the staff held out behind him and one knee slightly bent, the other straight with his foot firmly planted beneath him. The others heal barely touching the ground.

The remaining sand warriors closed in again and Entreri sprang. Then end's of his staff becoming a blur as he twisted his wrist and snapped the weapon out in front of him. Using his other arm as a counterbalance, Artemis stopped his pivot short and took out another warrior with a stinging hit to the midsection.

He brought the staff down and out behind him, just in time to intercept a strong blow aimed at the back of his knees.

Entreri pivoted again stepping inside the arc of his opponent's weapon. He threaded a leg between her feet and pushed out with both fists on his staff.

She stumbled back, but managed to regain her balance and only received a grazing hit to the hip. She came on then, with a snarl and made ready for his next attack.

Entreri seemed to lead with one end of his weapon aiming for her face, when she moved to block, however, she learned painfully that it had been a rather obvious feint. Artemis had wiped the staff's other end around and caught her square across the chest as he turned to face his two remaining opponents.

Entreri called to mind Jarlaxle's fantastic swashbuckling technique as he watch the remaining warriors whip and twirl their respective weapons. A cold grin spread over his face.

Entreri straightened his stance and set his staff to spinning, tossing it in the air and moving it form hand to hand with a flourish. When the first warrior came at him he stopped its spin with his foot, reversed his grip and aimed one end right at the charging warrior's groin.

The hit was met with the crack of wood on wood as the warrior blocked with his weapon.

The sand swathed man went on the offensive, raining a furry of blows at Entreri's head and shoulders. All of which met stinging parries, but Artemis was giving ground. This man was good, possibly the best the nomads had to offer.

Suddenly Entreri fell into a crouch and whipped his staff around to take a shot at the man's shins. His powerful blow met only air as the sand warrior sprang up to doge. Before Entreri could adjust his momentum, a solid hit came down on his collar bone, numbing his arm and jarring his spine.

Grimacing through the pain, Entreri brought his staff back around and smacked it into the back of the man's knees. The warrior was caught off guard, never had he seen anyone recover so quickly from such a blow. He fell backwards, clutching his knees, never knowing what had hit him.

Artemis stepped over the fallen man to close in on the last man standing. This warrior looked nothing like his kin. His blond hair and sky blue eyes stood out in marked contrast with that of his fellows.

"You don't belong here Calishite!" The blond man shouted.

Entreri was taken aback by his words. So this man knows the common tongue, he thought.

"Look around you, North Man; we stand in the Calim desert! If there is any who don't belong here it is you!" Artemis snarled.

"You carry that evil on your hip! You bring your vile demons here, your very being is infused with it!" The man lunged at Entreri, his blue eyes blazing.

"You know noting of my demons!" Entreri countered with his own fury.

This man had ignited Artemis's battle lust fully with his snide comments. Entreri knew he was letting his anger take control, but as with everything else of late, he was powerless to hold it back.

Red filled his vision and Artemis Entreri let out a snarl of primal rage. He launched into a series of offensive maneuvers, his staff a blur as he reduced the blond man to a twitching pile of limbs on the hot desert sand.

What had begun as an impromptu sparring match, a way to size up this newcomers battle prowess, was fast turning into something more. Abrhama made ready to intercede, but he was too late, far too late.

The blond warrior hit the sand hard. Angry red welts rising on his arms and neck, his fair yellow hair fast turning a dark crimson from a long gash in the side of his head. He groaned feebly as he tried, but failed to rise.

Entreri's chest was heaving as he struggled to rein in his un-sated anger. He spun on the rest of the sand warriors as they made to help their, fast fading, kinsmen and barred their way with his upraised staff.

Through the red haze of his vision he caught a look of stark terror and worry on the face of one woman. Then it was as if a plug had been pulled and the deep well of his fury drained rapidly. The staff fell from his hand as he turned to tend the fallen man. A fast spreading, dark stain marred the sand under the blond warrior's head. His blue eyes fluttered as he desperately tried to cling to consciousness.

Entreri tore through his pouch and brought out a potion. He popped the cork and forced the bottle's fluted neck between the man's lips. Artemis cradled the man's head in his arms as he watched the magic do its work. The red welts subsided and faded to yellow brown burses. The gash in the man's head soon was noting more than a raw puckered scar.

"You can thank my demons for your life, North Man." Entreri whispered as placed two fingers on the man's neck, checking his pulse.

The warrior's breathing was steady. He had lost a lot of blood but should recover within a few hours. Unfortunately the man would live to fight another day, Artemis thought bitterly. Entreri looked up, expecting anything but Abrhama's crooked smile.

Abrhama laid his hands on the prone man and sent a wave of healing energy into him. The blond man's eyes popped open and he let out a gasp, like a drowning man suddenly plucked form the sea.

Before the man had entirely recovered Abrhama launched into a lengthy dialogue, of which Entreri only caught the word 'Artem!' But by the incredulous look on the blond man's face Entreri had a pretty good idea of what was being said. With more strength than any old man should posses Abrhama pulled the man to his feet.

"Artem" he said gesturing to the assassin, then to the blond warrior "Nylund." Abrhama clapped the blond man on the back and shuffled away, muttering and laughing to himself all the while.

Entreri turned to follow but Nylund caught his arm. Artemis stopped and cast a scathing look at the North Man.

"One brush with death was not enough for you?" he asked glaring at the hand on his arm.

Nylund removed his hand swiftly. "Abrhama has much to do before we travel through the land of our fathers. He asked that I attend you until nightfall." Nylund's voice was flat, defeated.

Truly, Nylund would rather eat all the sand in the desert, than escort this evil man through his village.

"I am to be your ward then? And at the word of a doddering old fool?" his tone dripped venom. "What is to stop me form simply continuing on my way?" Entreri asked rhetorically as he fished around for the statue that would summon his mount.

"I would like noting better than to see the back of you, but Abrhama has other plans. You will not leave, Abrhama told me so. You are the warrior of darkness that has plagued his visions for many tendays. No Artem, you will stay." Nylund concluded with a look of supreme dismay.

Entreri stopped looking for the statue and nearly corrected the man on the pronunciation of his name, but stopped himself, if Abrhama and his people were determined to call him Artem than so be it.

"Visions?" he asked in spite of himself, "Abrhama is plagued with visions?"

"Abrhama is Shaman. He must suffer the visions for the good of our people. Of late, his visions have been plagued with great evil, Warrior of Darkness. Such evil saps his strength." Nylund turned and beckoned Entreri to follow.

"So tell me, Nylund, why is it that I still live? If this evil plagues him so, he had every opportunity to slay me in my sleep, as did you when you led the ambush in the desert."

Nylund's face twisted in a look of frustration and anger, "No man can know the mind of one who walks with the Spirit of The Desert. Abrhama has his reasons in every task he sets for us. Don't let the old man fool you, he has the wisdom of our fathers."

They walked in silence making their way to a group of men and women who sat on woven mats. Scattered about were small pots and bowls, containing strong smelling salves and bright pigment paint.

The men were striped to the waist, intricate patterns being applied to their chests and backs. Nylund shrugged off his sand colored cloak and removed this thin cotton tunic, motioning for Entreri to do the same.

"We are making ready, preparing for travel through the dead city of our ancestors. It is lucky we brought you in when we did, Abrhama was nearly done waiting for you. If you made it to the city unprepared the spirits would consume you, ruin your mind." Nylund explained, then turned to speak to a woman whose fingers were covered in the bright pigments.

I highly doubt that, Artemis thought. He had lived nearly his whole life in Calimshan and had never herd a single tale of this dead city. Entreri removed his cloak and, black, button-down silk shirt, as he finally sat beside Nylund. Skeptical though he was he knew it would only cause trouble to refuse the paint.

Artemis shivered slightly as the woman began to trace an intricate design on his back. The paste was cool and wet, but thick so it would not run. In spite of himself, Entreri began to wonder what she was painting on him. What significance did the patterns and colors hold? He pondered.

"Nylund, what is the purpose of this adornment? Only a few of the patterns are the same," he nodded in the direction of the other painted men, "what do they mean?" he asked, his curiosity finally getting the better of him.

"They are chosen by clan, or family. When we reach the city of our ancestors the spirits of our fathers will know us by the markings on our skin. Yours was made clear to Abrhama as soon as we brought you to him." Nylund pointed to a drawing in the sand beside the mat he was sitting on.

The drawing, which the woman was transferring to his back at that very moment. Entreri felt sick. The symbols all were overshadowed by the crossed jeweled daggers of Basadoni Guild. The other, smaller ones, he had trouble recognizing at first, but the more he studied them the more he felt his heart sink.

There was a small inverted triangle. A symbol he had seen many times, too many, on the embossed wax seals of Bregan D'aerthe. Among the intricate designs and flowing traditional tribal patterns he could make out other stylized renderings. A broken flute, the stars and eyes of Selûne, a heart shaped locket, a gauntlet, and the bony hilt of Charon's Claw.

Entreri closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. He would have to have a long talk with Abrhama. He let out a sigh; it would no doubt have to be though Nylund. He looked over at the blond man and noted the design being painted upon his back.

Stylized mountains, trees and a great winged dragon were all overshadowed by the crescent moon and date palm of Calimshan's standard.

"You are form the north are you not?" Artemis asked.

"I was born in the north yes. Taken as a spoil of war and sold into a slave caravan bound for Calimport. I fled into the desert when I was just a boy." Nylund looked over and into the unnerving grey eyes. "These are my people, Artem, my brothers, my fathers, my sisters, mothers, and wives. Their blood may not be my own, but I am a child of the Desert Sun and I will fight to my last breath to keep them safe."

That last was spoken not as a challenge, not as a threat, or warning. It was stated as a plain undoubted truth. It was a truth that Artemis could respect. Nylund was not so different from himself. Nylund was the man Entreri could have been had it not been for Basadoni's agents. Still he felt a pang of loss over the old Guild Master.

Regret over what could have been was not something he could bring himself to dwell on, however. As wonderful as a life with the nomads could have been, Artemis Entreri told himself, that he would have never been content with them.

Basadoni had taken the time to teach him many tings. Things he never would have learned had he remained isolated in the desert. Things, he doubted, he would have ever have had use for had he been taken into the nomad's tribe. Entreri nearly shrugged his shoulders, but quickly stopped himself. For better or worse he did not want the painted designs ruined.

"When do we reach the city?" Artemis ventured.

"We break camp before the dawning of the sun. Even now the village prepares for departure. We follow the path of the desert sun and then on into the night. By the light of the high moon we shall meet the city of our fathers." Nylund's gaze was far away as he spoke, "This night we evoke the Spirit of the Desert, to guide us safely through the dead city and bring us to the potent sacrament of the spirit world." Nylund came back to himself, looked over at the painted Artem and grinned.

"There will be much dancing and celebration this night, Artem. You have chosen a most auspicious time to join us."

"I suppose I am just lucky that way." Entreri said, a bit more bitterly than he truly intended.

"Luck perhaps, but the Spirit of the Desert has played no small part in sending you here. I must believe that, Artem."

"As you wish" Artemis replied as he watched the woman paint dark crimson streaks across his chest.


	7. Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

Malehedectar launched the jeweled dagger clear across the room. It sank into the wood paneling of the far wall with its hilt quivering. The light form the single oil lamp caught the facets of the garnet set in its pommel and cast an ominous red glow over the floor.

Jarlaxle looked up into her tear streaked eyes. He was at a loss for words. Never had he thought that anyone, even existed, that could honestly care for Artemis Entreri. Calihye was a notable exception, but he suspected that one's desire for revenge heavily out weighed any true feelings she may have harbored for the assassin.

"You are very much like him, you know." He said, for lack of anything better.

"No I don't know. I have not seen the man in years." Malehedectar replied, her voice tight, on the verge of cracking.

If Entreri had killed Basadoni he must have had good reason, she thought. If Jarlaxle's story was to be believed, and the eye-patch confirmed it was, it was still much to digest. She focused on Calihye, and a burning rage and stinging jealousy constricted her chest.

They had never been close. How could she have ever taken a lover? For sixty years, her face had been enough to cause a lesser man to faint. Even so, Artemis Entreri never seemed one to take a steady lover anyway. Now though, he is a changed man, she thought. A spark of hope and long dead longing slowly kindled in the twisted knot in her stomach.

The spark was small, but she felt it none the less and quickly squelched it, a habit that had cost her more than she ever knew, but one that had served her well over her years of torment, living as a maimed wretch.

She mulled over the situation Jarlaxle had described in Memmon and the stolen glimpses he had taken of Entreri's memories. Rage and bitter bile crept up her throat. Angry tears spilled down her face, she realized her whole body was shaking.

Jarlaxle was touched by the display of emotion from this half drow maiden. The world was ever full of wonders, he mused. He stood then, his bare feet comfortably warm on the plush, if a bit worn, fax Turmish rug. He brought his hands up slowly and laid them on her shoulders.

Malehedectar's eyes snapped to attention, boring holes through his crimson orbs. She held the angry stare as long as she could, resenting bitterly, the look of concern on the face of Jarlaxle D'aerthe. This drow was Captain of one of Menzoberranzan's most ruthless mercenary companies, and here he is playing at genuine concern, she thought. Most likely, his concern was for his magic eye-patch.

Mal had snatched the thing off her face when she flung her dagger. The bright cut gems, set in the red leather, were digging into the palm of her clenched fist. She softened her grip and pressed the leather band into his bare chest.

"Here, it's not broken. I didn't hurt it, so you can stop fretting over your magic trinket," she had to steady her self, lest she start sobbing.

"No, Mal you keep it. I have another one, and besides its enchantments don't work as well over the mask anyway." Jarlaxle smiled and gently pulled her into his embrace.

He could not help himself, she was too beautiful. Granted he had not yet seen her fight, but she seemed to have everything he liked about Entreri and none of the sour man's stubble.

Malehedectar's stoic façade melted as she crumbled into Jarlaxle's arms. She hid her face against the mercenary's neck and wept. She felt his delicate fingers in her hair as he ran his hands over her head and down her neck. His fingers were seeking, probing and working at the knots of stress in her muscles.

He walked her slowly to the bed and sat her down. Malehedectar's head hung listlessly, her tears spent. He could see a twitch in her shoulders that spoke of building rage. That won't do, he thought, and quickly paced the room to fetch his hat.

Mal looked up when he plopped his great, feathered, hat atop her head. She couldn't help but smile as she caught the incredulous look on Jarlaxle's face.

"Not nearly as hansom as it is on me, if I do say so my self!" he huffed in mock vexation.

Jarlaxle took his hat by the brim and swept it off her head, with a swift, graceful, motion he sent it spinning up his arm to land at an angle atop his bald pate. His little performance was rewarded with Malehedectar's musical laughter.

He tossed the hat back to its peg and stretched out on the saggy bed. He pulled her down to lay beside him and gently coaxed her into cuddling up close. Her head rested in the crook of his arm and her hand spread out over his chest.

He breathed in her scent, an earthy musk with a sharp undertone of pungent, sweet smelling, incense. The smell instantly called to mind the Basadoni guild house and Entreri. The assassin, his cloak, and now that Jarlaxle thought of it, nearly all of the man's possessions smelled exactly like this. It must be a Calishite thing, he mused, as he breathed it in deeply none the less.

Jarlaxle was not the only one exploring scent. Malehedectar nuzzled her face over his shoulder and drank in the sent of him. Even after all his time on the surface Jarlaxle still used a strongly scented, quick lathering Underdark soap. Its rich complex scent was just as exciting as it was frightening. Mal's memories of the Underdark were not ones of joy, to be sure. Still she inhaled deeply breathing hot breath on Jarlaxle's neck.

He reveled in the sensation of her breath on his neck and let it wash over him. He felt his face flush; he was having quite a time keeping his desire from being obvious. He turned his head to take in her beauty and their eyes locked. Jarlaxle just couldn't help himself. He pulled her closer and his breath caught as he felt her fingers trace small circles near his belt. He leaned in and they shared their first blissful kiss.

Malehedectar caressed the soft velvet of his tongue with hers, noting his surprised pause as he discovered the mithral posts that pierced her tongue. His mouth was hot and tasted strongly of the cloves he had chewed to clean his teeth.

Mal's eyes flashed when they pulled apart her breath coming in soft gasps. Jarlaxle raised a questioning eyebrow and Malehedectar stuck out her tongue.

Jarlaxle grinned, he had sensed the magical emanations of the jewelry with his tongue and was very curious as to what enchantment those mithral pearls held. But that was a question best left for another time, he thought as he crushed his lips to hers.

Their kisses soon became more urgent as the passion built. Jarlaxle moved atop her as he trailed kisses and small love bites down the loose collar of the black, silk, tunic she had donned, pinning her beneath him.

He groaned with lusty pleasure as she moved beneath him, teasing his, almost painful, erection. Suddenly, Mal stiffened and all his pleasure came to a screeching halt.

"Jarlaxle, I cannot give myself to you" though regret was clear in her voice.

"Why ever not, my beautiful desert flower?" Jarlaxle cooed in her ear.

"As much as I would enjoy it, I cannot. My heart and my body are too firmly united. You are drow and may never know what it means to have heart, but if ever those things change… Having time is what it means to be an elf after all" she spoke in low tones, uncertain how the volatile leader of Bregan D'aerthe would react to being shut down.

"Well My Lady, I'll be here for a few more days at least, until my ship leaves port. Feel welcome to join me for meals anytime you like. But I really must be off now, as I have some rather pressing, business to attend to." He said the last with a hint of ironic laughter to his tone as he made to get up.

Malehedectar stopped him with a hand on his chest. She kissed him again longingly and still breathless, she whispered in his ear.

"I would dearly love to see this pressing business you speak of, but if it is an affair you would rather keep private I'll understand."

Jarlaxle flashed a feral grin. Her words had him more excited than he could remember feeling in quite some time.

"No, not at all, you are in fact most welcome to the show" he said as he unlaced his trousers, exposing his well endowed form.

Jarlaxle felt a spike of pleasure at the sound of her gasp. Yes I am very well equipped, for a drow, he thought. He reached a delicate hand down the flat muscled plane of his stomach and slowly began stroking his erection.

Mal's gasp turned in to a soft purring moan in his ear. Suddenly, her tongue snaked out to lick and draw the sensitive flesh of his earlobe into her hot mouth.

His breath caught as shivers of pleasure assailed him. Her motion at his side snared his attention. One of her hands had disappeared into the band of her loose, black silk, pants. She raised her tunic just enough so he could see signs of her hand working between her legs. She twisted sideways to whisper in his ear.

"Please don't stop, I wish to follow you into bliss."

Her husky whisper sent his head spinning and he picked up the pace of his strokes.

Malehedectar grasped his other hand and began kissing and sucking on his, thin, delicate fingers. Jarlaxle groaned in response as a pearl of clear fluid formed at the tip of his obsidian erection.

He made sure to keep one eye on her reaction as he moved one slender finger over it, smearing the liquid over his circumcised head.

"Oh please let me taste you" she begged, her hot breath sending shivers down his side.

Jarlaxle brought his finger up to hover over her parted lips, "Oh but my seed is poisoned" he said in a lusty whisper.

"Then I shall gladly meet my end on bended knee at the poisoned alter of Jarlaxle D'aerthe" she breathed, her face pleading.

Her words were too much for him. With an almost pained groan Jarlaxle spilt his seed in a white shower over his obsidian flesh. With a few final strokes Jarlaxle removed his hand from his throbbing erection and ran two fingers through the white sticky fluid that glistened on his skin.

He brought those fingers up and into Malehedectar's parted lips and watched her heavenly reaction. Mal savored the sweet bitter taste of his seed. Her eyes closed as her breathing became heavy. She reached for Jarlaxle and kissed him with a feral passion as she followed him into sweet oblivion.

Jarlaxle and Malehedectar took a few moments to bask in the afterglow of their bliss. As soon as Mal caught her breath she dunked a clean rag into the water pitcher and dragged it over Jarlaxle's stomach.

The cold wet chill of the cloth set him shivering once more. Jarlaxle let out a contented sigh. Never had he felt this sated from merely pleasuring himself.

"I take back what I said about your pillow talk. That was most satisfying, even if it was all a lie." Jarlaxle gave her a sly grin.

"Oh and what makes you think it was a lie?" Malehedectar asked sweetly as she fiddled with a long thin sliver filigree tube.

"Words spoken in the throws of passion, my dear, are rarely ever true."

"Well when next we meet you shall have to throw me to my knees and think up a suitable punishment for my lying mouth" she quipped, then held the tube between her lips and struck a match.

The sweet smell of strong Turmish tobacco filled the room as Malehedectar took a long pull oh her strait-pipe. Jarlaxle cocked an eyebrow and she handed the pipe to him.

"So you were serious and I should take that as an invitation to have you on your knees?" Jarlaxle took a pull on the tapered silver pipe and smiled as the fine Turmish tobacco made his head lighten just so.

"Take it however you wish Jarlaxle D'aerthe. If ever you learn to share your heart, then you shall have me on my knees always" she replied flippantly.

"Ware your words, Malehedectar Basadoni, you may just find, I have plenty of heart to spare." Jarlaxle laughed, a melodious sound that brought a warm smile to her face.

"_Ware your words_, lest you come to one day eat them" Mal said with a touch more seriousness.

"Stranger things have happened, especially to those who travel with certain drow mercenaries. Consider Entreri for instance" she shrugged, planting seeds of doubt in the dark soil of Jarlaxle's mind.

The leader of Bregan D'aerthe's whoring was legendary though. She knew that she was in no danger of him ever becoming a one woman man. One could only hope, she thought, sarcastically.

Malehedectar looked out a bubbled, pitted glass of the window. The waxing moon had moved far across the sky. A few hours longer and dawn would be upon them. She spun on Jarlaxle then, her crimson-flecked yellow eyes glittering with mischief.

"Take reverie with me." She said suddenly.

Jarlaxle's crimson orbs matched her mischief twice over. Drow were never casual in their reverie, unlike surface elves drow typically needed to be well warded to let their guard down enough to slip into trance. Even Jarlaxle had a few extra precautions when his only seeming protection had been the assassin taking watch from the shadows. Still the idea of sharing reverie with Malehedectar sent a surge of warmth pulsing through his veins.

"Have you gone mad, dear sweet Malehedectar? You would share your reverie with the Captain of Bregan D'aerthe?" Jarlaxle asked teasingly.

"No, I would share my reverie with simply Jarlaxle, friend of Artemis Entreri and bane of the Desert's Milk."

Jarlaxle took her words for what they were, honest but from her half drow heart.

"So I am" he chuckled.

"Then you will stay?" She asked, reaching into her bag.

Jarlaxle blew out a sigh, "Yes I shall stay, but only because you looked so fine under my hat."

Two long strides took him to her and he spun the slight elf-maid to face him as he pulled her into a crushing embrace.

Malehedectar purred like a happy cat in his dark arms. When their limbs finally untangled she tossed a pair of loose black pants, made of the finest Calishite silk at the mercenary.

She looked on approvingly, admiring his form as he shucked his tight leather trousers and switched to the more comfortable garment. Then she tied her mask behind her head and sat cross-legged on the large flat, round cushion that Aria had sent up with her bath.

Jarlaxle's eyes narrowed with suspicion as he waited for an explanation. When none was forthcoming he moved to stand before her.

"You are a night blade then?" his tone made it more of an accusation than a question.

"No, though I am familiar with some of Vhaeraun's followers. It is but an old habit" she nodded to the silver pipe on the table, "Old habits are slow to die." She noticed that the tension did not entirely leave his shoulders at her obtuse explanation. "Suffice to say that you too would have developed a habit of hiding your face had you suffered at the hands of the Derro as I have."

Jarlaxle's look of suspicion melted into one of true sympathy. The Derro were an abomination of a race, a cross between humans and deep dwarfs. They infested the Underdark like vermin, capturing and torturing any one they snared along their way. Some claimed their insane cruelty even surpassed that of Loth's clergy, though Jarlaxle was unsure about that.

"I see, forgive an old drow habit of inborn mistrust, My Lady." Jarlaxle replied earnestly as he sat down with his back to hers.

"There is noting to forgive. I seem to have that same trait. But mistrust is a double edged sword I am afraid. On the one hand it keeps you form walking blindly into treachery, on the other it keeps you from ever knowing the full potential of those you would like to call friends." Mal's words were spoken with clear lament.

"There is much wisdom to those words Malehedectar; it's a terrible and wonderful world we live in. As with all things I have found a little temperance goes a long way, but I am sometimes the last one to follow my own advice." Jarlaxle's voice reverberated through her spine as he spoke.

"Mmm… hush now. Breathe with me" she said as she took his hands in hers.

Malehedectar exhaled and was surprised to feel Jarlaxle do the same. His every breath, every slight movement sent motes of pleasure though her being.

As Jarlaxle fell in tune with her rhythmic breathing he was taken aback at how relaxed and calm he felt. The gentle pressure of her back against his beckoned him to let go, slip off into reverie. But a tiny portion of his mind rebelled, demanding he stay alert.

She is half drow! His mind screamed. She must have an ulterior motive for this. No drow would willingly give such pleasures without a clear gain to be had.

Malehedectar felt him tense. She knew he could only try his best to relax; Menzoberranzan had a way of seeping into a drow's soul, making even a simple shared reverie nigh impossible.

"Jarlaxle?" she called softly.

"Yes" he tried to sound casual.

"The information you have provided thus far has proven most useful and the eye-patch is a nice toy. But I sense this relationship could be far more profitable for us both, given the right circumstances." She was glad he couldn't see her face, or it would have given away her little ploy.

Jarlaxle let out a breath he only then realized he had been holding, "I was just thinking along those very lines, My Lady. We shall discuss the details over breakfast." Jarlaxle gave her hands a slight squeeze.

Jarlaxle was finally able to put his mind at ease, with a clear profit in sight; he exhaled deeply and let his back settle against hers. His breathing falling in once again with Mal's, he discovered a whole new realm of pleasure though it was tinged with a sadness he couldn't yet identify.

Athrogate stumbled into the Cloak and Dagger well past sunrise, drunk as a fat-bellied friar deep into his own kegs.

"If ever a'lady be wide in tha hips, ye better believe I'de be kissen them lips!" he sang as he caught sight of Jarlaxle's plumed hat.

He went through a few more raunchy verses as he made his way over to slap the mercenary on the back.

Jarlaxle took note of the Dwarf's black eye as Athrogate pulled up a chair and plunked down.

"Iffen a woman e'er tells ya she's got one o'them brassiere's o'elemental summon'en ye best believe her, coal skin, ye best believe her. An don't ye go ask'en about me eye nether!" Just then the oblivious dwarf caught sight of Malehedectar.

'Brassier of elemental summoning?' Mal signed.

'It's best not to ask as I'm sure he will divulge the whole, horrifying story at the most _appropriate_ time' Jarlaxle's hands flashed back.

Malehedectar burst out laughing then, there was nothing for it. The way Jarlaxle's intrigued expression betrayed his seeming indifference was just too much on top of the whole business of a women's brassier that could supposedly summon elementals.

"You know this foul mouthed drunkard?" she asked Jarlaxle out loud.

"Surren I do. An Jarlaxle's mouth be tha worst in tha land. An if e'er ye see him there be a mug in his hand! Gwhaahaa!" Athrogate interjected.

Now it was Jarlaxle's turn to laugh as Mal's eyes went tight. He could only imagine the look of pristine annoyance beneath that black silk mask. True he should have warned her about Athrogate, but surprises were just too much fun.

"Now, now, my dear Athrogate there is no need to sing my many praises. You know how it gets right to my head." Jarlaxle's blue eyes sparkled.

"Let me introduce Lady Malehedectar. She is a lady of grace and _infinite _patience. And this _charming_ fellow is Athrogate, formerly of Vassa. At present he is simply Athrogate of the Wayward Wench." Jarlaxle said, making reference to the brothel where Athrogate had spent nearly two full days.

"I see" was Mal's terse response.

Jarlaxle could tell by the undercurrent in her voice that Malehedectar thought just as highly of Athrogate as Entreri had. The similarities those two shared bordered on the supernatural.

"She aint a dragon is she?" the dwarf asked Jarlaxle in a loud whisper. Without bothering to wait for a reply the dwarf turned to Malehedectar, "Ye aint no dragon, are ye? I'm a'tellen ya, ye can't be trust'en the looks o'them skinny maids these days."

'Dragon?' Mal's hand flashed.

'It's a long story' came Jarlaxle's silent reply.

Hand was hard at work shoring up the guild houses defenses. He had set the guild's three resident wizards to work casting wards and a few well placed, thoroughly nasty, traps all along the perimeter. The lower chambers, the ones that allowed access to the sewers, had already been sealed. But Hand had insisted that dart traps and glyphs of warding be placed near all the sealed doors.

Hand had learned a painful lesson the night the drow had infiltrated. Even the Basadoni guild house was vulnerable. He doubted that the Rakers attack would be as efficient, or as deadly as the one perpetrated by Bregan D'aerthe, but never the less he was taking few chances.

He had followed Dwahvel's advice and set up an elaborate alarm. There were triggers in nearly every room that set off a series of multicolored magical lights accompanied by a shrill whistle. The whistle was keyed to sound only in the ears of Basadoni guild members. The magical lights were merely a feint.

Hand, at present, was on the rooftop drilling the archers on sniper positions. They had lost many good men and a few women too in the last few tendays. But the senior members that still remained were taking charge and making sure the new bloods were up to the challenge.

Hausrath and Rocio, his acting lieutenants, were drilling new solders in what used to be Basadoni's private roof-top garden. The once meticulously groomed turf had long since turned brown and the massive potted fruit trees had clearly seen better days.

When the appointment of Pasha fell to him by default, Hand had been hard pressed to handle the faltering guild's day to day affairs. Things like the garden, the harem, and even Basadoni's cash of exotic pets all fell by the wayside. To be sure the garden and the animals got the short end of the stick as the lady's of the harem could at least fetch their own water.

Just as he was finished going over the secondary positions a low rank street boy darted up the carved marble stairs.

"Pasha Sir, there is a little girl here to see you. I didn't want to come get you, but she says your sister is sick, it sounds urgent."

"I don't have a…" he started, but quickly changed his words as it dawned on him, "a problem with you bringing news so long as it's important. You've done well, what is your name lad?"

"Its Disstan Sir, uh Hand, uh Pasha." The boy stuttered.

"Relax Disstan, why don't you go down to the kitchens and tell Mistress Ivory that I said to give you a cheese pie?"

"Yes my Pasha!" the boy said with a formal salute.

Hand knew he shouldn't be so soft with the boy but these were trying times for everyone. Especially for the young ones who worked over the streets in the poorer sections of town like Disstan. Death loomed ever closer and he could not bring himself to deal with the lad harshly.

Hand followed the boy down the stair well and through the bas-relief double doors. He nearly ran over Dwahvel, who was dressed as a ragged looking little girl. Dwahvel's shrill shriek of, 'Uncle!' was nearly enough to knock him over and coupled with her strong embrace it almost did.

When Disstan was safely out of earshot Hand pried the mad Gild Mistress off his legs and gave her a proper scolding.

"By the gods Dwahvel, couldn't you have sent a runner? And that story! Now the whole guild will think I've some bleeding heart!" Hand had his fists on his hips as he stooped over her, looking for all the world like an angry uncle scolding his niece.

A sly smile played on her lips as she led the way through the plush upper corridors of the Basadoni guild house. When finally they came to the map room, Dwahvel launched in to her explanation.

"Hand I've risked much coming here like this I know, but we have a problem brewing in Myratma. I've just come form a meeting with LaValle."

"You mean Bodau's resident wizard?"

"The very same. Tell me, you were here when Entreri was still a free agent of Basadoni's correct?" Dwahvel asked as she itched at her filthy blond wig.

"Yes, you know that, I've spent the last thirty years working through the ranks of this guild!" Hand shook his head and let out a mirthless laugh, "I never expected I'de be playing Pasha to this skeleton crew though."

"Do you remember a woman by the name of Malehedectar?"

Hand's face went white, as if he had seen a ghost. He remembered Mal alright and she was nearly as bad as Entreri, nearly. He had never actually seen her kill anyone, and that was just it. She was a master thief, and she had been one of the guild's lieutenants for years; but whenever she was around people simply disappeared, or turned up dead with hardly a scratch on their flesh to mark their passing.

"That I do. I took her position after she left, but the way Basadoni looked at it, I was just her placeholder. She and Artemis were like the man's progeny, the way he went on about them after they had gone you would have thought old coot had lost his damn kids!"

"I see I've touched on a sore subject." Dwahvel looked concerned.

Hand shook his head, "No I'm not sore, the man is dead. Those two were the best at what they did because Basadoni trained them himself. When they took off, they left some pretty big holes to fill around here. No one was good enough to fill them though and Basadoni was ever quick to remind us of that fact."

Hand paused to pour himself a glass of water from a cut crystal decanter.

"When Entreri came back I was sure the old man would welcome him to his side. I was a bit shocked when Sharlotta told us Entreri's first assignment. I guess it was the old bat's way of letting him know he was angry, or hurt, or what have you."

"Hand, I never knew you were the introspective type. But your words explain much, to be sure. Malehedectar is on her way here, LaValle has a contact in Memmon that will teleport her right to your door and sooner than you think." Dwahvel wagged a stubby finger to drive her point home.

"I'll not turn her away; we need all the strength we can muster. But Hausrath and Rocio won't stand for her just waltzing in here and barking orders. Rocio doesn't even know her; she was well before his time." Hand mused aloud.

"One more thing, it's been said that she is actively seeking information, what would you have me do? This is first and foremost a Basadoni matter and I wouldn't want to overstep my boundaries."

Hand mulled it over, spinning the water in the rounded bottom of his tumbler, watching the small whirlpool it caused.

"She has been gone form Calimshan far too long. We can't say with any certainty that she still conceders herself a Basadoni. Have your contact pass on a general outline of the city's dispossession. If you can determine her loyalty then offer more, but noting sensitive, mind you."

"You are ever practical." Dwahvel turned to leave, but spun suddenly as she remembered something else she had meant to tell him, "You know she carries Entreri's dagger. I'd be damned if I knew how she got her hands on his blade, but she was flashing it in the Cloak and Dagger. It'll be a few days before the news hits the city, but she will be hard pressed to make it to Memmon unscathed."

"Rest easy Dwahvel, it's not Entreri's blade."

The relief was clear on her face as he spoke the words. She had concocted plenty of unreasonable explanations as to how the assassin had lost that blade and none of them were in any way pleasant.

"You have never wondered about the crossed jeweled daggers on the Basadoni standard?" Hand asked, shocked that the Halfling Guild Mistress had never pondered the symbol.

"I just assumed…"

"One in front and the other behind, the twin blades of Basadoni; the daggers are a set, as once were ones who wield them. That is how they operated, Entreri, the bold flashy assassin and Malehedectar, silent as night shadows robbing Pashas and peasants alike and leaving no witness alive."


	8. Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

Artemis Entreri was covered in a thick lather of sweat even though the chill of the desert night was firmly upon him. Through the sheen of perspiration, the dark paint on his chest and back seemed to shimmer in the firelight, as every man in the Tribe of The Desert Sun gathered around.

Entreri had not seen Abrhama since the old dodder had left him in the care of Nylund. None the less, he was hardly surprised when the Shaman appeared beside the huge bonfire. The low rumble of hushed conversation died down as everyone was made aware of the old man's presence. The eerie silence was broken only by the pop and crackle of the fire.

Nylund had informed him that the tribe would scavenge and hoard every stick of wood they came by throughout the year, only to burn it all on this night.

Abrhama's voice traveled with the wind, through the gathering like low thunder echoing in a canyon. Entreri watched the dramatic motions of the Shaman's hands with rapt attention, even though he could not understand his words.

A moment later Nylund started the translation, "Long before the vile Shoon's and even further before the wicked Djen, in their arrogance, crossed through to this plane. Our ancestors made the desert sacred and forged a Home Land from the shifting desert sands."

Abrhama raised his hands and cast two fistfuls of sand into the fire. The bright orange yellow flames flared and rose higher into the night sky. The Shaman stepped back then and lunged at the fire, blowing a gust of wind form his lips. The flames swirled and danced a chaotic dance, as they settled, Entreri could make out clear images forming in their depths.

Graceful arches and glass topped spires of the most incredible city he had ever seen, soon danced within the flames.

"The Spirit of The Desert smiled upon us, his children. We, his chosen, the keepers of his wisdom, his sacrament."

Abrhama took up a burning limb from the edge of the flames. The old man wiped it about with amazing agility, causing red-orange streaks to play in Entreri's vision. Suddenly the Shaman brought the flaming tip of the stick to his lips, extinguishing it on his tongue. The grand city in the flames began to waver as it melted and crumbled.

"Wisdom's folly is arrogance, and in their arrogance our forefathers forsook the sacred rite. The knowledge of the spirits was lost to them and our great city began to perish."

Wails of abject misery and primal sorrow rang out from the gathering. Nylund's piercing shriek was nearly enough to split his eardrum. Even so Artemis was deeply intrigued.

"One man chose to leave the crumbling city and lead our people back to the ways of the Spirit of The Desert. Nasreddin the fool, Nasreddin the lack-wit, the arrogant elders called him. But ah, Nasreddin was truly the wisest of them all."

Abrhama cast two more fistfuls of sand into the fire and the scene shifted. A large caravan trailed from the ruined city and out into the barren dunes of the ancient Calim desert.

"Many stayed within the city refusing the wisdom of the spirits. Their eyes forever closed. Nasreddin pleaded, but still they would not leave. In their folly and pride they would not leave, even as the glass spires crashed down upon them. The spirits of our foolish brothers shall forever dwell within their ruined city."

The Shaman stirred the flames once again and this time the broken, vacant city was littered with the sun bleached bones of their lost brothers.

"The Spirit of The Desert looks down upon the ruins in despair. Year after year he reaches to embrace them; year after year we make his call known."

Abrhama stepped back and hurled his arms at the roaring flames. A burst of magic bright as a fireball nearly blinded the assassin. Suddenly the tight circle broke ranks and out of the darkness came the women of the tribe. They each filed passed the fire and snatched up burning sticks. The circle expanded until only the women were bathed in the glow of the fire.

Entreri sat on a woven rug with Nylund. He noticed the blond warrior had positioned a goat skinned drum between his knees. Nylund flashed a smile as he began banging out a rhythm in time with the rest of the men.

The women wore fabulous garments, flowing full skirts sewn with glass jewels. Their bare breasts were painted with flowing tribal designs. Their faces too were painted, each one the same, a thick black band across the eyes and deep crimson lips.

As the men began to beat the drums the women broke out in the most intricate and dangerous dance Entreri had ever seen. They tossed and twirled the flaming torches as they spun and leaped in time with the frantic drums.

Soon, mock battles took shape in their wild dance, the women all slashing and parrying with the flaming weapons. As the mock battles died down, Entreri was surprised to hear the men singing in their flowing, heavily accented, dialect.

The tone and cadence of the song coupled with the drums and frightening, erotic, dance all seemed in perfect harmony with the searing desert sands. Truly, he thought, these are the desert's people.

Gradually the women began to toss their flaming weapons back into the fire and fell back to join the singing. Several men in twos and threes took the stage, bathed in the glow of the firelight.

The men unsheathed great, ornamental, curved swords, gems sparkled all down the length of the broad brass blades. They wielded the cumbersome swords, one in each hand, with a swiftness and grace that rivaled even Drizzt. Artemis identified the blades as what the desert traders would call Saif.

In unison the group of warriors went through a blurring routine, spinning their blades, tossing them into the air and snatching them by the hilts again as they descended.

"The dance of the Flying Blades!" Nylund called over the din of the drums. "A ceremonial display, of the guardians of the City of Glass!"

More and more men came up to join the dance of the Flying Blades as they passed their drums off to the women. A beautiful young woman came to take the drum from Nylund, her white smile standing out in sharp contrast to her dark and painted skin, like sun bleached bones atop the desert sands.

Nylund stood and extended a hand to help Entreri to his feet. The assassin shook his head a firm no.

"Artem, you must join us in this celebration!" Nylund's grin told the assassin that it was not an order, merely a request.

A request Artemis Entreri thought best to refuse, "Nylund I cannot! I do not know the steps to your dance, and even if I did I lack the blades it requires."

Nylund laughed and shook his head, "No Dark warrior, the dance of the Flying Blades draws to an end. We each must dance from our own hearts. Come now and show your blades to the desert night."

He was egged on further by a look from the young woman. The fire light twinkled in her dark eyes as she smiled and pointed her chin in the direction of the dance. For reasons he could not fathom Entreri thought of his mother at that moment. He took a breath and rose to his feet.

As he followed Nylund over to the fire, his confident strides did much to hide the nervous uncertainty raging in his mind. With his hands on the hilts of his blades Artemis Entreri joined the dance.

Two full circles around the fire in perfect step with the tribesmen were broken as the men tapered off their revolving dance. They stood separated, giving each enough room as they launched into a unique display of their own battle prowess, a display for the Spirit of the Desert.

Artemis Entreri blocked out the sound of the drums and the heat of the fire. He was barely aware when Charon's Claw had sprouted black fire down the length of its red glowing blade, suffusing his form in its dark wavering flame.

He went thorough every routine he had ever learned, including some flamboyant, impressive moves he had picked up from Jarlaxle. Entreri let go; with every precise movement his mind cleared until he was at one with the blades. The calculated precision of his movements soon gave way to an elaborate improvisation.

Without a thought he reigned in his lightning fast movements, transitioning smoothly into a more relaxed, fluid form. The balance and grace with which he moved soon became a beautiful, deadly dance. He lost himself in the rhythmic fluid motions, finally allowing the beat of the drums to wash over him.

He spun his dagger as he brought Charon's Claw in sweeping curves all around his sweat sheathed form. As the drum beats waned he tossed his black, flaming, blade into the air, immediately snuffing the shadowy fire. Entreri snatched its hilt mid spin and stopped his dance with both blades crossed over his chest.

The drums abruptly ceased then and Artemis Entreri became aware that he was the only man left by the fire. Indeed, it seemed that they had kept up the drumbeat for him alone.

Abrhama's voice broke the silence as the Shaman called out to all in the common tongue, "Artem! Warrior of the Black Flame!"

The call was echoed as every man and woman in the gathering cheered, "Artem! Warrior of the Black Flame!"

"Ah Hahhaa!" came Abrhama's familiar laugh as cheers of 'Artem' swelled up around him.

Entreri was stunned. He was half angry at himself for letting go, half embarrassed that he had made a spectacle of himself, and half astonished at the tribe's cheering acceptance. It was too many halves he knew, but his blood was pounding in his veins and with the surreal situation he found himself in, he was having trouble thinking at all. One thing that did form clearly in his mind, however, was Abrhama. Entreri sheathed his blades and made like an arrow through the crowd toward the Shaman.

"Artem! Haha! Warrior of the Black Flame! Come!" Abrhama clapped him on his sweaty back.

"Damn you old man! How long was I by the fire alone!?" Entreri barked at the smiling Shaman as they made their way through the gathering.

"Not long Artem, maybe one or two cycles of the drums." Nylund answered as he fell into step on Abrhama's other side. "Do not be ashamed Warrior of the Black Flame, your dance was most beautiful. Even Jashar'en and his warriors wish to learn your steps." Nylund motioned to a group of men who were indeed mimicking Entreri's dance.

A thousand stinging retorts danced upon his tongue, but Artemis held them back. Shame was not a feeling he had ever allowed his heart to express. He looked on at the warriors as they slowly, but clearly began to get his moves down. A small flicker of pride flared in his heart. These were the same men who had preformed the Dance of the Flying Blades.

Finally they came to Abrhama's mid-sized, sandy, brown tent. Entreri marveled as the old man crouched suddenly and snatched up a passing lizard before the creature could dart away. The assassin furrowed his brow as he looked closer at the struggling lizard. Its mouth and scaly eyes had been sewn shut, with a fine black thread.

"Ah ha!" Abrhama exclaimed, thrusting the wiggling creature toward Entreri.

The Shaman quickly scampered through the tent flaps, squirming lizard pinched between his two bony fingers. Nylund grinned and followed suit, Entreri tagging along behind.

The pungent smell of burning camphor and sickly sweet, red rock, incense assailed him as he entered the tent. Of the lizard there was no sign, but Entreri's attention was caught by the wide shallow bowl in the Shaman's hands.

The bowl held a thick grey paste, something that resembled wet river clay, mixed with bloated oat mush; it looked as if the lizard had recently scampered over the surface. Whatever the substance was, it held the tiny tracks well, but it stank enough to make Entreri's eyes water.

Abrhama motioned for him to sit atop the camel skin palette, the Shaman then, launched in to a dialogue which Nylund promptly translated.

"Artemis Entreri" he had gotten that part easily, his eyes going wide at the sound of his name. "Artemis Entreri son of Shalani, you are a man of the walking dead. You move, you speak, and you may even believe you feel, but Artemis Entreri, you are dead in spirit." Abrhama poured a small amount of strongly scented oil into the bowl, it settled in a thick sheen atop the grey paste. "Your true spirit fled long ago, leaving a hollow into which many evils crept."

Suddenly the lizard appeared in his hands once more and Abrhama held it to his lips. He spoke in low tones to the wriggling creature and soon its struggles ceased. With another whispered prayer, the Shaman coated the lizard with the oily paste.

"The time has come Artemis Entreri, son of Shalani, for you to ask of the Malpitte where your spirit has fled, so that you can bid it return to you. A man who is dead in spirit cannot fight, cannot feel, and cannot love. This is but the first step upon the path healing. Will you take this path, Artemis Entreri?" Nylund looked to Entreri, with bated breath, waiting for the answer.

"How do you know my name? My mother's name! Where did you learn so much about me old man!" Artemis stood, nearly knocking the bowl form the Shaman's hands.

Abrhama's calm gaze never faltered. After Entreri had taken a few deep breaths the Shaman answered. Nylund spoke the translation with a tone of wonder, "I know and knew the mother of your mother well, her spirit has returned and with her, that of her daughters, to their people. In life, as with all of us, their choices were their own, and so it is in death. But Shalani and Saffura, your grandmother, have chosen to come home."

The Shaman paused for a moment to watch his words sink in, "You chose to come here! You chose to walk this seeking path, all on your own! The Spirit of the Desert beacons me to help you, guide you on your way. It is your choice to keep on this path you have chosen, or let it end here! But I warn you the spirit of the Malpitte is not for the weak. Her ways are fraught with danger."

Entreri was at a loss for words, his mouth went dry. This man had known of Shalani, my mother, had known Saffura, my grand mother? Impossible, the assassin thought, but then he almost fell to his knees as his mother's image came to him. Her dark eyes and sand colored skin; even in the throws of sickness she had not been pale. Her dark, almost black, hair, the slightness of her frame, the strange accent that had ever lingered in her melodic voice then, painfully, he recalled her crooked, decaying smile. Entreri could almost imagine her painted, happily smiling at him as she banged on the drums of her tribe.

Her tribe! _His tribe? _Entreri wondered, his anger crumbled, hot tears sprang to his eyes, washing away the bitter-sweet vision as he looked up at the solemn old man. Abrhama too had tears glistening in his eyes. The Shaman waited patently for Entreri's answer.

Nylund was also touched by the Shaman's revaluations and the blond warrior brought up an uncertain hand to clasp the assassin on the shoulder.

"Artem, the time is now, go with the Malpitte, and find your true spirit. Abrhama speaks true, her ways are difficult, but the result is pure. I have seen your dance; your strength shall see you through."

Entreri gave a slight nod, not yet trusting his voice. Whatever, or whoever Malpitte was, he could only guess. But he had gone too far to give up on this journey. Artemis took a moment to find his center, a tenuous balance within the storm of chaos, which was his mind.

"So be it. I am ready, do your work old man! And let us be done with this." Artemis spoke with a cold, flat calm.

He was unsure, even a bit frightened, though he would never admit it, even to himself. Artemis Entreri, of the walking dead, squared his shoulders and braced himself for the touch of the cold, wet, paste.

Abrhama worked swiftly and deliberately, smearing the foul smelling paste over the assassin's eyes and rubbing it into his temples. Finally he finished with a wide circle in the center of Entreri's forehead. The Shaman then turned his charge out of the tent and led him off into the wilds of the desert night.

Soon enough they came to a small grouping of rocks and Abrhama sat him down. The paste was beginning to dry and Entreri reached up to brush it off, but Abrhama slapped his hand away.

"Leave that be!" Nylund translated, "You must call to the Malpitte, let her know you seek her wisdom. You must concentrate on the questions you wish answered. You must ask to find your spirit, Artemis Entreri."

As Nylund spoke the Shaman's words, Entreri felt his head go light. A fire bloomed in his stomach and the night went red. All he could see was red. His chin sank onto his chest and he felt a lizard scuttle up his arm. Artemis made to snatch it away, but his limbs were too heavy, he could not move. Panic welled up within him, but quickly melted away, as the whole world drown in a sea of crimson. The last sound he heard before he fell into red oblivion was that of the nomad's foot steps, receding as they walked away.

Malehedectar was a bit put out, but hardly surprised, when Jarlaxle informed her he would be spending the night in the room he shared with Athrogate. She sighed as she reached her door. It's just as well, she thought, the oblivion of true sleep was more appealing than reverie tonight any how.

When she opened the door, a twitch of battle readiness slowly faded into annoyance, as the rustle of parchment caught her by surprise. The sound faded as a sheaf of papers scattered over the floor. Some one, Aria, no doubt, had slipped the parchment under her door.

"Damn fool," Mal muttered as she stooped and snatched up the papers.

She pulled down her mask and she perused the tight, badly scrawled, common inscription. The information was cursory at best, nothing she could not have found out on her own. Aria is holding something back, or he is more a fool than he seems, she thought. It had to be the former, for his sake it had better be, she concluded, her fist tightened, crushing the parchment.

Malehedectar trapped and barred her door, shrugged off her cloak and stood in front of the bubbled, brass framed mirror. Her fingers came up to remove the badge, that Jarlaxle had pinned to her bodice. A sense of smug satisfaction was quickly pushed aside as she strung the pendent on a silver chain about her neck and changed into her bedclothes.

It would not do to let the appointment go to her head. True, the contacts she could forge as a Bregan D'aerthe operative could only benefit her, but she had placed herself firmly under Jarlaxle's thumb.

They had worked out the specifics of their little arrangement over breakfast. The way Jarlaxle had made it sound; there could be only gain for her. Malehedectar knew he had to have an ulterior motive. If it was, in fact, a trade agreement with the Basadoni guild, or if it was something more sinister, she could not say.

Either way the badge marked her clearly, as a high ranking member of possibly, the most infamous of drow networks. A position she would have given almost anything for in her younger years, now though, she was uncertain. Worst comes to worst, she thought as she fingered the pendent, I could always destroy the thing and disappear. Malehedectar pushed the thoughts of Bregan D'aerthe out of her mind as she settled down atop the saggy bed.

Jarlaxle sat at a cramped desk that was anchored between the two small beds in his room, tuning out the sound of Athrogate's snoring as he worked. He was busy setting up the enchantments that would activate Mal's lieutenant badge, and connect her to the vast network that was Bregan D'aerthe.

He had sent a telepathic communication to Kimmuriel outlining his plan and informing the acting captain of the band's newest member. The psionicist was hardly pleased, but then Kimmuriel never was. Jarlaxle, though absent from Menzoberranzan, could still do as he pleased when it came to recruitment. So long as he did not involve the whole of Bregan D'aerthe in any more surface ventures, the absentee captain could, and would, do as he wished.

He could hardly let this opportunity slip through his fingers. Calimshan's exotic goods would fetch a small fortune in Menzoberranzan's open bazaar. The fact, that with a little effort, Malehedectar could pass as a drow, or a surface elf, would put her in a prime position to exploit a profitable trade venture between the Underdark and the surface.

Jarlaxle smirked as he finished modifying his own pendent and began drilling another note into a small golden whistle. The fact that she had a history with Artemis Entreri was merely an added bonus. His smirk became a wide, diabolical, smile, as her soft breathing came through his own captain's badge. Yes, that little bonus was something he was going to make great use of.

Several hours later, Jarlaxle was still making a list of goods and quantities he wanted included in the first trade shipment, when he heard a sharp curse come from the enchanted badge.

Malehedectar was jolted from the black void of true sleep, by the sound of booted feet hitting the bare wood of the floor, under the, now open, window. She snatched her dagger out of the wall above her head and was on her feet in seconds.

"Vith'ir!" Mal spat, when she noticed that two of the three tuffs, she had scared out of the tavern the day before, were already in her room and the third was on his way though the window.

She wasted no time in snatching up her short sword, from its scabbard that hung on the nearby chair. She advanced on the two, dagger leading.

The first man blocked with his rusty, pitted, blade and Malehedectar quickly batted the pathetic weapon aside with her faintly glowing, short sword. She stepped into the parry and drove her dagger into his gut. The man barely got out a gurgling shriek as his life's essence was torn from his falling corpse.

The next man was already in position, aiming a light cross-bow at her neck, as he crouched near the window. Malehedectar spoke a simple command word, opened her mouth and breathed a cone of paralyzing fear to stay the man's hand.

She turned then, to face the third, but gasped when five gleaming daggers sank into his chest and neck. The unfortunate thief fell backwards, out the second story window and landed with a sickening crack when he hit the cobble stones of the alley below.

"It is unfortunate they didn't put up more of a fight. I am getting a bit rusty; I could have used more of a challenge." Jarlaxle quipped as he stepped through a neat, circular hole, in the wall right near the door.

The mercenary pulled the hole from the wall, folded the supple black fabric, and tucked it into his hatband. He indicated the crossbowman with a grand gesture, "What shall we do with our newest friend?"

"Kill him." Mal said flatly and pitched her dagger at the man's eye.

A clang of steel rang out as her blade was knocked off course by a fabulous rapier that had appeared in Jarlaxle's hand, seemingly, form nowhere.

"Always rash and to the point, just like Entreri!" he said brandishing the rapier, "Don't you want to know who they are, or more aptly" he indicated the dead man, "who they were?"

"Perhaps who sent them? What they were after?"

"I know why they are hear _Captain_, they came for the dagger! And I had every intention of giving it to them!" Malehedectar snapped, with bitter resentment.

"Yes and right through the eye too! _Classy_ Mal, and _never_ take that tone with me!" Jarlaxle snapped, his features twisted into a cold grin of barely restrained anger, the blue eyed innocence of the magical disguise, completely at odds with his evil expression.

Just then the magical fear wore off; in a panic the thief let loose his bolt at Malehedectar. Lightning fast, Jarlaxle skewered the man through the neck with one thrust form his rapier, but it was too late. Mal brought her hand up to block the bolt, and stopped it with her flesh. The grubby, ill fletched missile was stuck fast through the palm of her hand.

A stream of drow and elven curses flowed from her lips as she took a seat on the bed and braced herself to extract the bolt. Jarlaxle secured the window, glancing down to be sure the third man was dead, and then spun on Malehedectar.

"First and foremost, I am you friend, _Lady_ Malehedectar. In the regimented city of Menzoberranzan things shall be much different between us, _lieutenant_, but on the surface I am your Captain only in matters that concern Bregan D'aerthe." Jarlaxle's voice was tight with barley contained wrath.

He didn't know where this venom was coming from. He knew only that her words, the resentful tone in her voice, as she referred to him as Captain, had stung him, and deeply.

Malehedectar gave him a pained smile, "Is this coming form my friend, or my Captain, dear Jarlaxle?"

Jarlaxle huffed in exasperation, she was baiting him. Quickly he dismissed the matter, for the moment, and took out his healing orb. Jarlaxle cringed when he looked up, just in time to see Mal break off the end of the bolt in her teeth, and yank the splintered shaft through her palm.

He came over and snatched up the hand before she could cause any further damage. He paused for a moment, a cruel smile playing on his lips at her wince. Jarlaxle held her hand in his and looked into her fiery, crimson yellow, eyes as he pressed his thumb in near her wound.

"Your flippant remarks sting, like splinters, under my skin" he said, slowly, menacingly as she tried to flinch away.

His grip tightened like a vice and Mal's breath caught in her throat. He eased his grip slightly, as he began chanting, tilting the orb near her palm. Jarlaxle watched as the puncture closed and her blood ceased its trickle over his thumb. Soon there was not even a scar to mark her flesh. He finished the chant, but still Jarlaxle held her hand.

As he gazed into her eyes, Malehedectar focused keenly on the fine lines that creased his brow. Jarlaxle was struggling with something she did not understand. What ever it was, her comments had seemed to set him off.

Jarlaxle's abrupt mood shifts aside, Malehedectar knew it was time to leave Myratma. Those three would-be thieves would not have taken their information to their graves, she was sure. The more time she allowed news of her dagger to spread, the more thugs she would have to kill. It would not do to leave too many corpses in her wake; not when her status within the Basadoni guild was still uncertain.

"Help me lift them." Jarlaxle said as he broke their gaze and headed to the window.

Malehedectar flexed her hand gingerly as she moved to help. They worked in silence and in no time, they had heaved the bodies atop that of their fellow, tossing them out the second story window and out into the alley below. Jarlaxle even moved the rug over the spilt blood that had pooled on the floor. When they had finished, Jarlaxle turned to leave, with out a word. He made it half way to the door when he was stopped by her voice.

"Jarlaxle, please don't leave." It was clearly a plea; she had not even bothered to hide the need in her tone.

She had already made up her mind to leave on the morrow and she wished to spend all the time she could, getting to know the volatile Jarlaxle. As her friend, as her captain, it hardly mattered. In such a short time she had developed strong feelings for the dashing mercenary, irrational and ill-advised though those feelings were, she could not deny them.

Jarlaxle spun to face her, an abrupt, irritated motion. His heals clicked together loudly and his midnight blue cape snapped out behind him. He held his head at an angle so the brim of his plumed hat obscured half his face in deep shadows.

"Give me one reason why I should stay." His voice was not as tight, but it was no where near the, light, jovial tones of his usual manner.

Whatever it was that had gotten him so worked up would evaporate, if she would just… just… Jarlaxle couldn't think. He wanted to slap her, to kiss her, to kill her, to run away form her. Malehedectar was the root of whatever was plaguing him, he knew. Suddenly he was very glad she would be leaving in a few days.

"I have not properly thanked you for healing me. And I have changed my plans. I shall be leaving Myratma after first sun." Mal spoke clearly, if a bit uncertainly, it would not be wise to upset him again, not if she valued her life.

Jarlaxle let out a barking laugh, "Will you thank Jarlaxle your friend, or Jarlaxle your Captain?" he sneered, as he turned to leave once more.

"Neither."

He paused, turning his head to look at her over his shoulder.

"I wish to thank Jarlaxle, my lover."

Jarlaxle froze. A hot sensation, like steam from an over boiling kettle, suffused him. It felt like pyrimo fish were eating their way out of his stomach.

Malehedectar advanced on him then. She reached out with her, recently healed, hand and took off his hat. She slowly reached up with the other to remove the magical disguise.

Jarlaxle nearly flinched as he felt her fingers brush his face. Everywhere their skin made contact seemed to burn like hot wax. Mal tossed his tings on the bed and began working on the, inlayed, platinum, and ivory buttons of his waistcoat. She pulled his billowy, white, spider-silk shirt out of his trousers and slid her hands up under the supple fabric, to caress the, flat-muscled, plane of his stomach.

Stop this! His mind railed, kill her and be done with this whole affair! She is half drow and just as scheming and ruthless as any drow female. Quickly though, he reigned in those murderous thoughts, one off handed comment was noting to kill over, surely, he argued with himself.

His eyes lingered on the Bregan D'aerthe badge she wore as a pendent around her neck. Gold and platinum filigree, inset in jet, glinted in the weak light of the oil lamp. The badge, more than her words, marked her as his. His possession, his lieutenant, also his… lover, he mused. Could he not issue orders, demand she pay him the respect he deserved? Perhaps demand she bend to his will? There was much to consider, and never did Jarlaxle make a hasty decision.

He reached around her, tangling his hand in her thick hair. Jarlaxle made a fist near her scalp, yanking the silken strands and jerking her head, tilting it, forcing Mal to look into his crimson orbs.

"I do recall you mentioning that you could not give yourself to me. Was this a lie?" Jarlaxle pulled her in close, their lips almost touching, "Or am I to assume you have had a change of heart?" His tone was sharp, accusatory.

Jarlaxle felt his chest tighten, his palms were sweating. He was furious, intrigued and aroused, the mix made him want to scream. Instead he hissed, "Well, My Lady, which is it?"

Malehedectar knew that this situation could get dangerous, and fast. But she had not become one of Basadoni's twin blades by avoiding risks. Mal had seen enough of Jarlaxle to know his weakness, and even if her heart was undecided, her body demanded Jarlaxle's touch.

Malehedectar shifted in his grasp, she ran her mithral studded tongue over his earlobe, "Jarlaxle D'aerthe, you are far too beautiful. You have broken my resolve. But…" Mal pulled back and gave him a coy smile, "I don't recall having said I would give you anything."

The heat of her voice in his ear seemed to almost drown his anger. But her words… Jarlaxle caught on to her proposal in mere seconds. He groaned softly when she pressed her body against his. Jarlaxle released her hair and ran his hands over the soft, supple black fabric of her night shirt.

He placed a few, delicate, teasing, kisses on her neck and with a twisted smile he whispered in her ear, "I have, on occasion, been known to simply take what I wanted" his words gained steadily in volume and intensity, "In this instance, my dear, you are already mine!" with a swift movement Jarlaxle caught the hem of Mal's shirt and deftly pulled it over her head; with his other hand Jarlaxle pushed her to the floor.

He snatched her up by the hair and goaded Mal to her knees, "That lying mouth of yours has gotten you in some trouble, it seems, "Jarlaxle licked his lips in anticipation, "It's time you show me the depths of your respect, and it had better be deep. Or… we shall have to find an alternative, somewhere, where your respect runs much deeper."

Malehedectar's crimson-flecked yellow eyes burned with desire. Each time he manhandled her, shooting pangs of longing soared up through her body. This act she could do, it was indeed something she was adept in, but she had never lain with a man.

Maimed by the Derro before she had ever taken a lover, Malehedectar was left untouched. It's not that she had not wished to, oh she had wished, imagined this very thing, only in the rough grasp of Artemis Entreri.

Though Jarlaxle was not the one she had held in her heart, he was perhaps a better choice. Malehedectar had somewhat, unconventional desires. Never would Entreri let this drama play out as well as Jarlaxle surely could.

"Oh, but I would not want you any other way." Mal's voice was husky as she reached to unlace Jarlaxle's trousers.

With trembling hands she stroked the height of his arousal. Her mouth licking and sucking, her hands caressing and cupping sensitive flesh, Malehedectar looked up in time to catch Jarlaxle's expression of supreme bliss.

Jarlaxle gazed down at his half drow female, with lidded eyes. He inhaled deeply the scent that seemed to permeate the room, the earthy smell of Calimshite incense, Entreri's sent. His heart began to flutter, his whole body became hot. The billowy, spider silk shirt suddenly felt like a heavy wool coat.

Never had she felt such desire; on her knees at the black alter of Jarlaxle D'aerthe, Malehedectar lost herself. Always with her perspective lovers, even Gideon, she had been expected to dominate, to take control. That is what most of them wanted from a half drow female.

Having been a slave for nearly half her life, Malehedectar, had somehow, developed a need to be dominated. A need she had never before expressed until now, and it was a need that she knew Jarlaxle would gladly fulfill.

Jarlaxle pulled away from her, grinning wickedly at her disappointed expression. He made a great show of unbuttoning his shirt, slowly, and with extreme care. When finally, he was done, Jarlaxle shrugged off his cape and tossed the shirt on the bed; he sauntered over to the pegs and continued to make a show of hanging his cape.

Malehedectar could have murdered him. Jarlaxle D'aerthe was just as insufferable as he was beautiful. She closed her eyes and listened to the sound of his boots, clicking across the carpeted floor. She felt his hands on her face, a soft, lingering caress. Mal looked up at him then, up into his red eyes.

"Come, My Lady" Jarlaxle's velvet tone made his words seem to linger in the air as he strode off to sit on the bed.

Malehedectar stood and almost followed his command, but with a sly smile she hooked her thumbs into the waist band of her black pants. With great care to mimic the mercenary's painfully slow removal of his shirt, Mal slid the silken garment down inch by inch. Soon though, she was again by his side.

Jarlaxle grabbed her, kissed her roughly, hungrily, but then pushed her to the floor once again, "Remove my boots."

Jarlaxle was forcibly reminded of Entreri as he met with Malehedectar's look of unbridled furry. For reasons he did not dare to speculate upon, it only enflamed his desire, taking Jarlaxle to heights he had scarcely imagined.

Mal reached up and tore off one of his boots with a ferocity that suggested she had meant to take his whole leg with it.

Jarlaxle snatched her hair, "You will perform this task with all the grace and humility you possess, or you'll find the alternative, most unpleasant" a dagger appeared in his hand, he leered wickedly and the blade disappeared with a flourish.

Malehedectar removed his other boot with much more care. She looked up at Jarlaxle's face. Small beads of perspiration glittered on his brow. He held his hot flesh in his hand like a staff of polished obsidian. Mal's mouth went dry when he pulled her to her feet.

Jarlaxle tossed her lightly to the bed. He leaned over her, running his scalding tongue over her midsection. Malehedectar's toes curled as the trail of wet saliva cooled on her dusky skin. This was it; there would be no stopping this time.

Jarlaxle leaned over her to whisper in her hear, "Beg for this, Mal. I give you my word, I'll not be a gentleman either way, but I whish to hear you plead."

Jarlaxle was unsure when this had ceased to be a game. I feral need welled up in him; a need to possess this female completely and utterly. An errant thought of Zaknefein almost made him falter for a moment, but the thought was quickly dismissed by Malehedectar's sharp nails digging into his shoulder.

"Jarlaxle, please… I…" Malehedectar's voice was quiet, barely audible.

Jarlaxle grinned, "As you wish, My Lady"


	9. Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER EIGHT

He drew himself to his feet and was nearly knocked back down again; it was as if he no longer knew how to wield his own legs. Entreri swayed on his feet, fighting to maintain his balance, when suddenly he felt a distinctly feminine presence. His struggle ceased as he felt her knock him back, Entreri fell, bracing himself for the impact that never came. He was floating, cradled in the crimson light of the Malpitte.

Voices came to him as the crimson haze died down to reveal a since, a memory, like a vivid dream form which he could not wake.

"I'm going to be an adventurer! The greatest swordsman that ever lived!" the boy cried as his make-shift sword cracked against that of a dirt streaked little girl's.

The girl parried and wriggled the small fingers of her free hand, "I'll be a mage, no, a fearsome spell-sword! We'll fight dragons, and rescue noble Ladies!"

"Araggah!" the young boy cried and brought his arm up to shield his face form her imaginary magic, "You'll have to do better than that, vile spell-sword!"

The boy lunged, brandishing his stick. Their weapons met and the boy pushed hers out wide, and brought his stick to her neck, "Release the princess, and I'll let you live!" he declared.

"Hey! No fair! I cast a fireball, you can't block a fireball!" the girl protested.

"Well you can't cast one nether!" the young Artemis argued back.

A red mist tainted the vision; it was carried on the wind, with a voice Entreri would never forget. It hit him like the fist of an Iron Glom. He doubled over and wretched, emptying his stomach onto the litter caked street.

"Artemis! Artemis, come over here! Don't ya want to see the surprise yer Uncle's got for ya?"

The boy looked to his playmate, their dispute forgotten, "I'd better go. If I don't he'll just come and get me."

"We could run, hide, become adventurers, you know." She said, gripping his hand.

The young Artemis shook his head, swinging his dirty black hair over his bare shoulders, "They'll find us, and when they do it'll be a sound whipping, just like last time." The boy turned and ran into the small shack he called home.

Artemis Entreri was made to follow; sucked through that, ill fitting, door like smoke caught in a back draft. He was pulled, jerked, as if by a string, anchored to a point just behind his navel.

His father was out, working at the docks, or working on his cups, whichever it was, it hardly mattered to they boy. His mother was at the temple, begging medicine for her growing illness. In the gloom of the ill lit, one room shanty, his Uncle sat at the table, a bottle of whisky in his hand. Two small, dinted, tin cups sat atop the battered table and the sweaty man filled both to the brim.

"I heard yer fine talk about adventuring, boy. Ya need to learn to handle yer drink if ya plan on being a sell-sword!" His Uncle slurred.

This _was_ a surprise. Never had the boy had any whisky. Belrigger and his brother, Tosso-pash, always drank the stuff, but had never offered Artemis a drop before.

"I never said sell-sword. I'm going to be a knight! Or a Palladian even! Me and Neasa, we'll rescue noble Ladies and save common folk all across the land!" he declared as he approached the table.

The boy's thoughts assaulted his mind. The innocent, curious thoughts of a child, the child he had been, "Run! Run! Artemis, take up a knife! Kill this man! Anything, just don't drink his poison!" Entreri screamed at the boy, his words carried, ringing in his head like the clang of steel in a pitched battle.

The drunken man gave the boy a wild-eyed look and giggled, a high pitched sound, like a Desert Wren. The sound made Entreri's stomach clench and bitter bile rise in his throat.

That giggle… he had silenced it, forever, and now, here he was, made to listen to it again. Malpitte was a wicked, heartless, bitch; he struggled then, trying to get away, needing to do anything but witness what happened next. But her crimson talons would not relent. It was like fighting the encroaching darkness after sunset, futile.

"Even a Knight knows how to hold his drink, boy! Now bottoms up." The smell of Tosso's breath made Entreri gag.

The scene blurred before his eyes, and Artemis Entreri found himself reliving the horror he had been dreading when the vision first appeared. He was standing, on the other side of the tattered curtain that separated a stained, filthy, mattress from the rest of the hovel. Watching as his Uncle hurt him in ways no boy should _ever_ have to suffer.

The child's thoughts flickered in his mind, a memory, a reality, he did not know. All he heard was the whispered cries of, 'No! Stop! Why?' the broken dread in the boy suffused him. It was too much. He pulled back, recoiling from the trembling mass the child had become.

When it was over, he looked into his own, tear-streaked, face. The bright young fire in the boy's eyes had dimmed. Entreri then noticed a flickering light, like mist, emerge form the young boy's lips. A voice, his own thoughts, told him that a part of his spirit had splintered off and fled.

Artemis Entreri willed this madness to end. He worked to combat that which held him in place. He struggled in vain to reach out, to comfort the boy, but his effort was in vain.

The next vision came then, and Entreri braced himself. He knew he was stuck fast in Malpitte's wicked spell, no matter how hard he tried, Entreri could not break free of her twisted visions. Her wicked crimson light surrounded him like a red dragon's fiery breath, searing his skin, shredding his resolve; he was carried out into a crowded street market.

There he watched, transfixed as his mother exchanged words with a fat merchant. Entreri's mind roared in rage as the young boy was pulled, roughly, into a wagon. When his mother's figure was swallowed up in the crowd he watched tears stream down the child's face.

A shadow, like a black arrow, shot into the boy's chest. Young Artemis's tears ceased to flow and bitter mistrust, crushing resentment, hardened his young heart. Betrayed, the boy resigned himself to his fate.

Entreri was shoved out into the desert and into the plush, well appointed tent of the merchant. His mind railed as he was made, once again, to witness the sick cruelty inflicted on his young body. When the vile act was done, this time the boy shed no tears.

Another fragment of the boy's spirit cracked and fled as black snakes coiled around his stunted heart. A cold rage welled up in the young boy's eyes. A rage that would only grow to simmering quintessence as the child advanced in years.

Artemis Entreri's wail was one of misery, horror, as he fell to his hands and knees. The sandy gravel of the desert cut into his palms. His breath came in wracking sobs; he looked up to see the Malpitte. She hung like hazy smoke in the desert sky, surrounding everything in a poisonous cloud of red light. He was taken then, back into her fiendish spell as he found himself in the filthy streets of Calimport's shanty town.

Artemis watched, waited, as the young boy prepared to do battle with another, barely old enough to be called a man. Entreri watched with a raw heart when his younger self slit the throat of the older boy. As the dusty street was bathed in blood; from every cranny that held a shadow there came hundreds of black ethereal insects.

He watched as the very last flicker of light in his young eyes died. The boy's spirit fled, like silver tears, from those dead eyes leaving only a scarce remnant behind. The fading light of the boy's fragments worth of spirit was obscured, devoured, as the swarm of insects closed in. They crawled over the boy's limbs, into his mouth and nose, and burrowed under his skin.

Artemis Entreri reached feebly for the boy. He could already see the darkness settling within, could see the boy, becoming the man that Entreri had been.

The warped laugh of the Malpitte priced his heart; it was an echoing, maddening cackle. The spirit's blood red essence carried him off, into the marble paved halls of a place he knew well.

Artemis Entreri walked swiftly down the, well appointed, upper halls of the Basadoni guild house. The ornate, double doors of the Pasha's bed chamber flung open as he approached and a familiar masked woman darted past him. Malehedectar, a woman he had not thought of in years.

"Come with me." She said, her voice watery, but when he turned to follow her, she was gone.

Entreri continued, rushing into the bedchamber where Pasha Basadoni bled out his life, through the gaping wound in his old heart. Artemis Entreri sprinted into the room, thinking to stem the flow, stop this from ever happening. But his path was barred by drow forged adamantium. Without a thought Artemis Entreri drew his blades and squared up against the disillusioned man he had been.

The man, his former self, was outlined in Malpitte's crimson light, the light played tricks on Entreri's vision. This man was dead! Maggots wriggled beneath his blue flesh and swollen pustules, near to bursting, sprouted on his face.

The dead man came on with all the cold, calculated, fury of his black heart. The cadaver's blades, the jeweled dagger, and black adamantium sword met Entreri's blade and Charon's Claw with a screeching keen as the two faced off.

"Your weakness and pity has blinded you!" his decaying self cried as he countered Entreri's defense with blinding speed.

"No! My eyes are open! It is _you_ who cannot see!" Entreri went on the offensive, using all the raw emotion in his being as his focus.

He swung Charon's Claw with a passion that he had never known. Artemis Entreri's dagger came in with his every need behind it, the need to kill, the need to destroy this man, the man which that suffering child had become.

The red tinged man was hard pressed to counter the wild attacks, but soon he found an opening in the blinding, furious routine. He brought his drow forged blade up under Entreri's chin. He paused for a moment to savor the look on Entreri's face as the realization of failure slammed home.

"You see, passion, love, anger, or pain has no place in a fighter's heart!" So engrossed was he in taunting his victim, the animated corpse never noticed Entreri's blade, poised to sink into his side.

"No, passion is the edge I have ever been lacking." Artemis whispered, drawing the parody of himself closer as he plunged his dagger in.

Entreri sank to his knees with the wounded, dead man. The red glow began to fade from the corpse, as the vampiric dagger filled Artemis with a sickening cold. Entreri yanked the blade free, before it could finish its dark work, and pulled himself to his feet.

"Finish it! Never leave an enemy alive!" the man, the rotting husk, snarled in impotent fury.

"You are already dead! I watched you die, as a boy, by your own hand, long ago in a Calimport alley." Entreri spoke his words with righteous conviction.

"I shall haunt you until the day you die!" the dead man spat.

"I know. I know." Artemis Entreri replied, exhausted, resigned, and feeling, strangely defeated.

Entreri yanked open the door intending to be done with these visions once and for all, but he was met by a bald drow. Jarlaxle, he thought, how could this be?

Jarlaxle, dressed as a harem eunuch, gave him a smile and a wink, "You really should not have kept her waiting so, my friend."

"I'm not your friend!" Artemis shouted at the ridiculous drow, but he was compelled to follow Jarlaxle's clicking steps all the same.

Jarlaxle chuckled as he opened the great bejeweled doors of the harem, "You really should not have kept her waiting." The drow said again.

Entreri's breath caught in his throat as he met with Malehedectar's bare form. Clad in only her black silk mask, Malehedectar sauntered over to him. She wrapped him in her embrace; it was cool, like the mist coming form the bubbling marble fountain in the center of the room.

A sensation crept over him, something dark, mysterious, teased at the edge of his thoughts. Something he could not place. It was foreign, but compelling all at once.

"Kiss me, my love." Malehedectar whispered, her voice, the words, sounded as if spoken from far beneath still water.

Entreri raised his hands, and pulled off her mask. Terror like he had never experienced shot through his limbs. Her face, horribly disfigured, assailed him. Her half melted lips were frozen in a twisted smile, the ivory of her teeth, grinning like a vulture picked skull. Roughly he pushed her back.

Artemis Entreri ran; he fled down the stone paved halls. His boots smacking against the gold flecked malachite, sounding in his ears like maddening drum beats. Jarlaxle's mocking laughter, mingled with the shrill cackle of the Malpitte chased him onward, until the sound of his boots hitting stone was replaced with the crunch of gravel filled sand. Blood was pounding in his ears; he struggled to catch his breath as the terror receded.

Entreri stumbled, scrambled onward. A black water oasis, full of shimmering mist met him, the fragrance of Desert Willow flowers, mingled with Evening Primrose, lingering in the cool night air.

The mist parted to reveal a young boy, happily drawing pictures in the wet sand by the black, glistening, water. The boy, his long, dark hair brushing his bare shoulders, let out a laugh and bounded over to him.

"You want to play? I'm a Knight, you know!" the boy's blue-gray eyes sparkled; his voice was musical, happy, light.

The image wavered in prismatic light. His head felt light, like he would faint. The blood drained from his face. Entreri went pale, sorrow, regret, longing welled up within him.

"I…"Entreri's throat closed, tears flooded his vision, spilling unashamedly, down his face.

"Don't cry, Mister. We don't got to play, if you don't want to." The boy's face was fraught with tender concern.

"No, we'll play; I would love to play with you." Artemis said, finally finding his voice, "First, you need to learn balance."

Entreri reached out and hoisted the boy up and put him on his shoulders. His young laughter, chimed in Entreri's ears, plucking his heart strings like notes on a harp.

"What's your name?" the boy asked.

"It's Artem" Entreri replied, with out a second thought.

The boy laughed again, "I'm called Artemis! Yours is almost the same as mine!" his voice was filled with joy.

"I know. I know." Artem replied, overjoyed and full of shame all at the same time; as he bounced the child on his shoulders.

After what seemed like hours, days, but not nearly long enough, the Malpitte came again. Her red light tainted the sanctity of the silver mist, twisting it into dark, cloaked figures that moved in to surround the boy. A watery laugh caught his attention from the edge of the circle.

Malehedectar, clad again in her dark mask, leveled a bow at the boy, "Salvation dose not come from running away! You may find peace only in complete, utter surrender, with one eye, always at the centre!" her voice chimed with clarity, as if the vast depths of the waters she had spoken through before had been burned away.

The dead man, the one he had left on the floor of Basadoni's bedchamber, spoke then, from the opposite point of the circle, "Surrender, it is the only way!" he snarled, clutching the drow forged sword like a spear, ready to be hurled at the boy in an instant.

Entreri drew his blades and stood, shielding the child with his own body, "No! I'll not let you hurt him! Never shall he be made to suffer again!"

Calihye, standing on the left point of the circle called, "This is necessary! Resist us not! Only after surrender can you be resurrected, don't be a fool!"

Jarlaxle's voice came from behind him, "Yes, my friend, great sufferance do we bare, so that our feast may be of friendly fair. But where our sacred powers preside, let Entreri's rage be justified!" The drow's limerick was accompanied by scathing, laughter and five gleaming daggers, sailing through the air, soon to plunge into the child's back.

Artem looked, past the red mist, and into the shining, blue-gray eyes of his own spirit, "No!" he shouted and lunged for the boy, Jarlaxle's daggers pierced Entreri's flesh, as he dove in front of them, "No! I will never leave him, not again, never again!"

The vision began to churn violently. The last thing he heard as he was forcibly pitched onto the sand was the young boys cry.

"Artem! Don't go!"

His stomach heaved and Entreri vomited up red tinged bile. A wound in his side ached and throbbed, minor cuts, lacerations, on his arms and chest stung profoundly. His heaving had opened the stab wound in his side and the puncture began seeping blood. A chalk white lizard hopped off his shoulder and darted off into the night and Artem remembered where he was. In a choked voice he called out for Abrhama and Nylund. He half crawled, half dragged himself in the direction of the camp.

Quickly the Shaman and the Northman came to him. They carried Entreri back to the tent and began to tend his wound. The Shaman chattered all the while and finally Nylund spoke the words to him.

"Abrhama says, you must tell him everything the Malpitte has shown you. Everything the lizard spoke to you as well. You must leave out nothing."

Artem muttered incoherently as his stomach heaved again. Soon his whole world went black and Entreri heard the boy's call again.

"Artem! Don't go!"

Pasha Da'Daclan looked into his wizard's scrying mirror, watching with rapt attention, as a ragged little girl skipped through the crowd near Half Moon street, "Dwahvel is a crafty one I'll have to credit her that." The pasha wheezed.

His fat neck jiggled as he spoke and Jouneidi had to work hard to not blatantly show his disgust, "Crafty, but stupid. Did she really think we would not be watching her every move?" Jouneidi remarked, flipping his long, jet black hair over his shoulder, not a hint of revulsion marring his voice.

"No, that one is never so absentminded. Something is plaguing her, clouding her thoughts. I'll be most interested in learning what it may be, too." Da'Daclan slurred, "Our boys are in position?"

"Yes, My Pasha. Soharab and Nayrem await my signal" the wizard responded.

The Pasha laughed, his belly shaking, like a fleshy sack of gelatinous ooze, "Good, but don't mess her up too badly. I want the little half-woman intact to answer my questions."

"Yes My Pasha." Jouneidi turned to leave, his deep, maroon cloak whipping out behind him as he fled.

Shaking his head, to clear the image of Da'Daclan's naked, jiggling flesh, from his mind, Jouneidi made for his chambers. How he hated the Pasha! And the fat man knew it too, else he never would have subjected me to such a sight, the wizard thought.

The more successful the Rakers were, the more gluttonous, Da'Daclan had become. The Pasha had started taking his meetings in the harem, half naked, surrounded by trays of delicacies from all corners of the realms. Jouneidi shuddered, soon all of that would be put to an end.

An evil smile crept on to his face as he stroked his short, square beard. Yes, as soon as the Rakers take over the Basadoni guild, he would put a stop to the jiggling of Da'Daclan's flesh forever. In a swirl of black smoke the wizard was gone.

Dwahvel skipped fast, but carefully as not to appear rushed; it would not do to blow her cover. She hadn't bothered informing Vittands about this little errand, so she was a bit keen on getting back before he had cause to worry.

Dwahvel turned down an alley to avoid the heavy foot traffic in the street. As soon as she stepped into the gloomy shade she felt a bitter cold, like ice, settle over her. Her limbs went ridged and Dwahvel let out a breathless gasp, it felt as if she had been dunked in the frigid waters of the Sea of Moving Ice! A large, jeweled, ring on her middle finger flashed a deep red, she could move her limbs again, but Dwahvel was still chilled to the bone.

Nayrem and Soharab closed in on her, one in front of her, the other coming from behind. Dwahvel reached into her wig and brought out the two poisoned hammer darts she had disguised as hair pins. She was no novice to battle, Dwahvel, sure of her aim, snapped her arms out to both sides, launching the darts at the encroaching men.

One of the darts struck home, embedding its self in a man's thigh. The other, however, seemed to bounce off his companion harmlessly.

"Stone skin!" Dwahvel cursed, as she skittered around the wounded man and hurried off into the labyrinth of Calimport's back alleys.

Soharab plucked the dart from his flesh with a shaky hand; already he could feel the insidious poison doing its work. Nayrem rushed past him, pressing a small glass phial, an antidote, into Soharab's faltering hands.

"Move quickly! Jouneidi will not tolerate failure!" Nayrem shouted, running to catch the fleeing guild mistress.

Dwahvel ran, as fast as her short legs would carry her; which was fast indeed, as Halflings never seem to be at a loss for reasons to run for their lives. Quickly she had out distanced them, darting and cutting through the many twists and turns in the network of Calimport's back alleys.

Dwahvel tore off her wig and hurled it to the ground. Her brow was covered in sweat, but her teeth still chattered from the cold that lingered in her bones. She needed a moment to catch her breath. It had been a while since she had had cause to exert herself so.

The guild mistress crept behind a few crates of moldering garbage; doing her best to avoid breathing the stench. Dwahvel waited for her pursuers to pass by her position, she needed to backtrack. In her mad dash, she had sprinted nearly three whole blocks in the opposite direction from the Copper Ante.

Scant moments after the two men charged past, Dwahvel shot out form the shadows behind the crates. Silent as an arrow, she fled back the other way. With nearly one block to go, the guild mistress running full tilt, slammed into what felt like a brick wall. A thick churning black mist clouded her vision.

But Dwahvel was ever prepared, thinking quickly, she sprang back, and tugged on an earring, uttering a ridiculous phrase. A wall of shimmering force sprang into being in front of her, shielding her from several magic missiles that streaked through the black mist.

The mist dissipated to reveal the wizard, Jouneidi in all his pompous glory. Dwahvel, still dazed from the impact, but reacting quickly none the less, screamed at Da'Daclan's arrogant wizard.

"Jouneidi! You utter fool! What is this about? Your Pasha will have you flayed alive for this!" her face was red with outrage.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about me, were I you, my dear, sweet Dwahvel. There are much more pressing matters that disserve your attention at the moment." Jouneidi sneered, indicating with a flick of his slender wrist, that she look behind her.

Soharab and Nayrem were not but five feet behind her and closing. They had their blades drawn and each held one end of a glowing, mithral, net between them as they advanced.

Dwahvel reached into a pocket of her tattered disguise and took out a grey pellet. She hurled the thing at the ground between their feet and a huge plume of brownish, black smoke soon covered the men.

Nayrem and Soharab couldn't get their hands up fast enough to shield their eyes, encumbered as they were with the net. Burning mace stung their eyes and seared their lungs as they coughed and sneezed involuntarily.

"Enough of this, pathetic, Halfling, idiocy!" Jouneidi yelled, he flung out his hands and no less than ten bolds of angry magic shattered her wall of force.

One of his missiles grazed her cheek and opened a shallow gash under her left eye. Dwahvel's hand shot up to cover the wound as she let out a shrill shriek. This is not good, she thought, I am ill prepared for a prolonged street scuffle.

Dwahvel, the ever cautious, sneaky, guild mistress, had let her worry over Entreri cloud her mind. She had rushed off to find Hand, ill equipped to battle with a wizard. Bitterly she cursed herself and Tymora too, for her own recklessness.

With a grand, flamboyant gesture, and more arcane phrases than were truly necessary, Jouneidi swept his hands around and brought them close to Dwahvel. With his fingers like claws he uttered the last syllable of his spell. Dwahvel went rigid, her small hand plastered to her face, a look of sheer wrath frozen on her cherubic features.

"Yes Dwahvel, don't' spare me your rage, my dear. You just let that simmer, let is smolder in your belly and savor the bitter taste it leaves on that lying tongue of yours." Jouneidi purred in her ear.

Bolts of white hot venom shot down her spine. She had always hated Nassradin! The wizard's prejudice against the other races was legendary. Jouneidi was half the reason she had kept Dondon locked in the Copper Ante. Her cousin had made quite the enemy of Da'Daclan's pet wizard.

Jouneidi savored his victory over the halfling for a moment longer, and then roughly shoved her stiff form through a glowing dimensional door. When the portal closed he spun on the still gagging soldiers.

"You two are very lucky I am in such good spirits. Now, quit your sputtering and get back to the guild house!" the wizard turned with a dramatic flair and vanished in a shroud of his signature black mist.

"That repugnant, greasy snake!" Soharab coughed, "His days are numbered!" the stout framed Calimshite choked out.

"Ah, save it, you braying Ass!" Nayrem replied, wiping tears from his red eyes, "You're lucky you still live, if the wizard had seen you with that dart in your leg, he never would have let me give you that antidote!"

"All the more reason to see that pompous Termite dead!" Soharab concluded, putting all his hatred for anything Turmish into the declaration.

Nayrem shook his head, swaying his thick ponytail and gathered up the net. The two soldiers walked back to their guild house in annoyed silence.

Dwahvel found herself, on her back, in a cold stonewalled cell. There was no door, a least no opening her well trained eyes could detect. The chamber was far underground, that she could gather from the moisture seeping through the cracks in the slippery lichen covered stones. When the binding spell wore off she curled up into a fetal position to better shield herself from the cold. Dwahvel could only shiver and hope that Vittands would find her somehow.


	10. Chapter 9

Note to readers: In this chapter the character of Raphealla Von'Mercer, myself, makes a brief appearance. I would like to let any naysayers know that she is only a plot device and will not be featured in the rest of the story. As this is my very first story, I dearly wanted a cameo, so please just let me have my tiny moment of fame and don't quit reading just because of this brief self insertion.

CHAPTER NINE

Jarlaxle watched her sleep. They rhythm of her breathing, the rise and fall of her pert breasts, the soft glow of her dusky grey skin, in the dim light of the oil lamp, all of these things ensnared him. He twisted a lock of her hair in his slim fingers, it was a lustrous white. A small section she had missed in her hasty application of the pigments.

Jarlaxle drew a dagger and removed the small lock of hair, close to her scalp, behind her ear. He twisted it into a braid and tied it around his wrist. It was an action of sentimentality, one that he hardly noticed. Jarlaxle extended his arm to admire his new trophy, flexing his wrist, to make sure it did not interfere with his magical bracer. Satisfied, he turned his attention back to Malehedectar's sleeping form.

A strange desire close to, but not quite lust, welled up within him. Suddenly he felt sick. She was his, he had taken her, all of her, but somehow that was not enough. The more he thought about it, the more agitated Jarlaxle became. In a flurry of motion he got out of the bed and began collecting his belongings.

He didn't know what kind of game this female was playing at, but he needed to be away from her. These feelings that assailed him were troublesome, unfamiliar, and distracting. Jarlaxle paused in his hasty retreat to study her again. Malehedectar, lost in true sleep, shivered, naked atop the bed.

Without a thought Jarlaxle set his boots down and padded over to her. He pulled the thin, cotton, quilt over her, ceasing the shivering. Mal stirred a bit, but soon settled back into sleep at the sound of Jarlaxle's soothing voice.

"Hush now, rest Malehedectar", He whispered, as he eyed her dagger, just like Entreri's, stuck fast into the wall above her head, "So much alike, and yet, so far removed." Jarlaxle mused aloud.

He had been gone from Menzoberranzan for far too long. First Entreri, then Athrogate, and now Malehedectar, who else; what other wretch will find their way into the bleeding heart of Jarlaxle. He let out a breath, a huff really.

"More aptly, who else shall fall into Jarlaxle's tangled webs", he muttered to himself.

Mal woke then, "Humm… talking to yourself? Have I already driven you mad, dear Jarlaxle?" she rested her head in her hands, her elbows sinking into the mattress.

"Not yet, my precious whore", Jarlaxle said with a scowl, as he tugged on his boots, resenting the familiar and almost trivial manner in which she spoke to him.

Malehedectar sat up abruptly and snatched his shirt from the rumpled pile on the bed. She wadded it into a ball and launched it at him.

"Get out!" she screamed when the shirt collided with his face.

Jarlaxle nearly toppled over. He had been in a rather awkward position, stooping to fix his boots, when the wad of magically infused fabric slammed into his face. He tore the shirt from his head and quickly pulled it on.

"I was just leaving!" he shouted back, Jarlaxle grabbed his hat off the chair and strode to the door, his boots clacking so loudly, Mal thought he would bring the whole building down.

Jarlaxle yanked his cape off the pegs and flung open the door. He snapped his head around and took one more look at the furious Malehedectar.

"Get out! You pompous! Arrogant! Vile! Son of a spider kissing whore!" Mal pulled her dagger from the wall and flung it at him.

Jarlaxle quickly slammed the door, only to open it again when the missile struck home. He winced as he realized Mal had aimed for his groin. The blade quivered just below waist level in the inch thick wood. Jarlaxle ran and lunged at her. He drove her into the bed, pinning her beneath him.

"Get out! Leave me alone!" Malehedectar's words came in gasps of white hot rage, "I hate you!"

"You do not yet know what true hate is, my dear." Jarlaxle spoke soothingly, "I didn't mean it, you are many things Malehedectar Basadoni, but whore is not one of them" he whispered, nearly inaudibly, crushing her in his embrace.

Mal was stiff in his arms. She shook with fury, hurt, and confusion. He didn't mean it? That was supposed to make everything normal? Normal? She had shared her bed for the first time, and with Jarlaxle D'aerthe… things were ever going to be far from normal.

Jarlaxle felt like his chest was caving in. Not two moments ago he was ready to kill her and now he needed to see her smile again. This is sick, he thought, Sick! I'm not well, it must be this desert air, Boulder's Gate, be damned! I'll be on the first ship out of port, no matter where it's headed! Still he held her, petting her hair, willing her to be calm.

"Jarlaxle?" she asked, finally, her voice steady.

"Yes, my dear?"

"Please, go. I have a ways to ride on the morrow, and I do need some rest, and some time to myself, to gather my thoughts before I depart." Malehedectar kept her voice calm, but inside she was still, raw and angry.

"I shall go. I do apologize, My Lady, I seem to be feeling a bit under the weather. I usually am quite charming, I assure you." Jarlaxle flashed a smile.

Mal did laugh a bit at the irony, he was indeed, usually quite dashing, "Will I see you again before I go?"

"Yes, my Lieutenant. You must report to me before you leave. I shall have your orders ready, along with a list of contacts and some supplies." Jarlaxle walked to the door, his boots, quiet as a windblown feather and plucked her blade from the wood.

He brandished the dagger, menacingly for a moment, flashing another smile. Jarlaxle sauntered back over to her and set the blade on the bedside table, "You and Entreri are really, very much alike. Did you know he commissioned a painting of me, just so he could use it's groin for target practice?"

Malehedectar laughed so hard her sides hurt, "Oh, but that means we are both extremely fond of you!" she wiped tears from her eyes, "It's a Calimshite thing. You wouldn't understand."

Jarlaxle's eyebrows shot up his forehead, "Very clever! If that is the case, than I am very glad to be leaving Calimshan far behind me."

"Or, you could stay and invest in a sound, mithral, codpiece." Mal quipped, her anger finally forgotten.

"It's funny you mentioned that. The shining mithral codpiece, used to be quite a respectable fashion in Menzoberranzan, many, many, years ago. And one, I may just deem necessary to bring back, now that you so, quaintly, reminded me." Jarlaxle said mischievously as he turned to leave.

Malehedectar could only shake her head and laugh. Jarlaxle is utterly mad, she thought, nestling down to finally get some rest.

The intricate webs of his mind twitched and writhed as the mercenary retreated to his door. Athrogate's snoring assaulted him as soon as he set foot in the tiny closet that Aria called a room. He reminded himself to have a little chat with the innkeeper; Malehedectar had somehow managed to procure much more spacious accommodations.

"Must be a Calimshite thing", he chuckled to himself.

Jarlaxle made himself more comfortable, kicking off his boots and settling atop his small, stiff, bed. He took off his hat and ran a hand over his cleanly shaven head and closed his eyes. He breathed deeply and could smell the pungent, earthy, incense of his two most trusted allies. Jarlaxle's crimson orbs snapped open to stare accusingly at the bracelet of woven white hair on his wrist.

Was there no escaping her? Jarlaxle shrugged, he did not want to answer that question, at least not honestly. Jarlaxle D'aerthe always had a method of escape. He did not survive as the captain of rogue mercenaries, for centuries, without having an escape rout planed for every venture he undertook. Jarlaxle could not recall having ever felt the need to run, and the nagging desire to stay at the same time, however.

The conflict was driving him mad. He had known the female for less than three days and already he felt… haunted, exasperated, distraught. The ease with which he had taken her into his band was staggering! Now that he thought about it; it was Entreri! That bastard! Jarlaxle felt as if he had known Malehedectar for years, only because she so reminded him of the moody assassin.

"So close and yet" Jarlaxle recalled her blissful surrender, "So very far apart."

A shiver of remembered passion snaked down his spine. Her intensity, her precise, calculated movements, sometimes even her very words, were enough to make Jarlaxle feel, if even for a moment, that Artemis Entreri had never left his side.

Jarlaxle pressed his palms into his tired eyes. Perhaps he would accompany Malehedectar on her first trade mission; return to the dark simplicity that he called home. Things seemed to be more easily unraveled in the Underdark. Mistrust, greed, and duplicity were far more straightforward than sentiment and friendship.

Jarlaxle walked over to the cramped desk and snatched up his quill. He finished his list, extinguished the oil lamp and sat back in his chair. His crimson eyes flashed in the dark like a beacon as he watched the luminescent ink dry on the parchment.

Entreri woke with his head aching and the taste of honey mixed with wet ash in his mouth. The light of predawn streamed into the tent through the open flaps. He winced as he looked around, his head throbbing with every turn of his neck. The Shaman's tent was bare, save for the skins he was occupying. Entreri remembered then that the whole tribe was making ready for the journey; they were traveling to the city of their ancestors.

He propped himself up on his elbows and swiftly lay back down. A shooting pain in his side twisted his stomach and made him want to gag.

Nylund poked his head in, to check on his ward and vanished instantly, off to fetch Abrhama. Soon enough the blue eyed warrior returned, Shaman in toe.

"Artem, it is good to see you among the living!" Nylund spoke with a cheerfulness that grated the assassin's nerves.

"If this is how the living feel, I…" Artemis broke off as he clenched his jaw in agony, "then I would rather remain among the dead!" he finished in a labored snarl.

Abrhama shook his head and laughed, "Malpitte was good to you! Artem, the strong!" the Shaman raised a fist to his bony chest and laughed all the more.

"Laugh while you still have breath, Old Man!" Entreri spat, curling a fist around his dagger, "I could have died, you old fool!" he roared, in building furry.

Nylund interceded quickly, he had come to like the brooding Artem and did not wish to see the Shaman strike him dead, "You could have died, yes, but you did not. The Malpitte, she is fond of you. Now be calm Artem so we may tend to your wounds."

Entreri swallowed his anger and let his hand drop from the jeweled hilt of his dagger. Nylund approached and checked the bandages. The blond man packed a compress of wet, golden yellow, herbs into the wound in Artemis's side.

"Do you not possess any healing magic? I witnessed as much from the Shaman when I first met you." Artemis snapped, flinching involuntarily at Nylund's touch.

"Yes we can heal many ailments, but you must heal from these wounds on your own. The Malpitte has caused them and our magic cannot close these wounds", Nylund spoke solemnly.

"I see", Entreri hissed through gritted teeth.

Truly, he did not see at all. He knew he had been alone in the desert; only his mind had taken the journey with the Malpitte. Entreri knew he could only have inflected the wounds himself. The one in his side, the one from his own dagger, should have killed him, and yet he still lived. Even more disturbing, were the other cuts, scrapes, and punctures over his chest and arms.

"Jarlaxle!" he shouted, startling Nylund and drawing a concerned look from Abrhama.

The Shaman sat, cross-legged, a short distance behind the Northman on the bare, sand floor of the tent. His words, as per usual, came through Nylund. It was an arrangement Entreri was beginning to tire of, considerably. The assassin made a mental note to learn the tribe's complex dialect before he departed for Calimport.

"Our time here is nearly at an end, we must make haste to the City of the Dead. Tell me what she has shown you. Tell me too what the lizard spoke into your ear. You must leave out nothing! Everything is important, color, texture, and odor", the look on Nylund's face was as serious as his tone.

The visions, the memories, were clear in Entreri's mind. Every time he focused on the one aspect of them though, a red haze encroached on the outskirts of his vision. His chest felt tight. Never had he spoken aloud what had been done to him as a child. It was shameful, something to be pitied for, something that marked him as weak, a victim.

"How could the lizard have spoken anything? It's mouth was sewn shut, and the last time I checked, lizards cannot speak!" Artemis snapped, buying time, and trying to sate his curiosity all at the same time.

Nylund replied, in his own words, with no prompting from the Shaman, "Lizards are great gossips! We must sew the mouth shut when a lizard agrees to help the Malpitte, so that they cannot tell another man the secrets she reveals. Your lizard will speak only to you and he speaks into your mind, with the help of the Malpitte."

"Nylund I…", Artemis started, but his throat closed, his eyes burned as salty tears threatened to form.

"Artem, I know. Her visions are always painful. She takes from us the source of our strength by showing us the depth of our weakness. Please, you must be strong."

Artemis Entreri pulled himself up, gritting through the pain. He sat facing Abrhama and steadied his breathing. Entreri's heart was pounding; he could feel his pulse drumming in his neck. This was a battle of will. Deep in his core, the assassin was terrified; he was loathe to speak of what had been done to him as a child. Adrenalin shot through his veins and danced in his legs, the need to run, to turn away from this, screamed in his mind.

Malehedectar's words, the ones from the vision, came to him then, "Salvation dose not come from running away. You may find peace only in complete, utter surrender, with one eye, always at the centre", Artemis spoke the phrase aloud, in low tones.

Artemis Entreri squared his jaw and closed his eyes. Slowly, through clenched teeth, he began recounting what the Malpitte had shown him. Gradually his descriptions gained momentum and his voice gathered strength until his hissed whispers became a confidant monologue, spoken with intensity and conviction.

Jarlaxle left the Cloak and Dagger in good spirits. He tweaked his disguise, just so, and sauntered off into the more affluent Merchant District. He wore his cape a deep golden yellow, his steps clicked merrily as he twirled a sliver, ferret-headed cane.

Jarlaxle tipped his plumed hat to every group of blushing ladies he passed along his way. Yes, he was in fine spirits this day. Malehedectar was well on her way to Memnon, and the change in his plans had been prosperous thus far.

The mercenary had booked passage on a well decorated schooner that was set to leave port in the evening. He had yet to inform the Dwarf, but what would Athrogate care anyhow, he thought.

Well, there was the small matter of briefing him on their new professions, but with Athrogate's natural aptitude for rhymes, the fellow was sure to get on just fine. Now, to find some books; Jarlaxle was searching for not just any old tomes, but for books of bardic lore.

He walked up and down the crowded avenues, stopping and carefully reading the placards of each small shop he passed. The sun was high, but a clean breeze swept through the port town, carrying the smell of Myrrh from a distant temple. Jarlaxle inhaled deeply, the smell, the sun, the breeze, the colorful garb of the upper-class merchants, everything delighted him. This was a fine day, indeed!

Soon enough he came to a bookstore, it was scrunched in-between an apothecary and a dry goods trader, "The Showman's Quill", Jarlaxle read the placard aloud, "Yes, this is just what I need", he said, playfully speaking to the ferret-head of his cane.

He opened the, green and gold painted, door and stepped inside. A pleasant chime greeted him as long stands of small, brass, bells announced his arrival. Jarlaxle had to pick his path carefully. The tiny, cramped, shop was full to bursting with bookcases and precariously stacked tomes.

Jarlaxle stopped to scan a few titles, "Tyrfing's Tales of Bigy's Middle Finger", he chuckled and read a few more, "Mortakis missiles of romance, A tale of two Orcs", Jarlaxle wrinkled his nose, "Attacking the Darkness, a beginners guide to adventuring", he smirked as he made his way to the back of the shop.

He could hear someone rummaging through books near the very back wall. Quietly he crept behind a bookcase and removed a few tomes, to peer at the shop's proprietor.

A half elf, female, he guessed, though her garb and appearance were so androgynous it was difficult to be sure, was sorting and stacking leather bound tomes. A large brimmed hat, entirely made of feathers, that surly rivaled his own, hung on a peg above the half elves' head. She was deeply engrossed in her task and oblivious to the mercenary's presence, a very dangerous position to be sure.

Jarlaxle face sported a wicked grin and he cleared his throat, loudly. He shook with suppressed mirth when the shopkeeper started and the precariously stacked books tumbled to the ground.

"Damn it all! That's going to take years to sort again!" the woman shouted, snatching up her hat, "Unless…" with a snap of her fingers and a tip of her feather hat, the books, fluttering and rustling, all danced back into their respective places.

She darted around the bookcase and threaded through the stacked tomes with a grace and poise that suggested an intimate knowledge of the little shop. The woman stopped in front of Jarlaxle, her feathered cape sweeping out behind her in a grandiose flourish.

"Raphealla Von'Mercer, at your service", she said with a musical tone, sweeping her great hat off her head and with a flick of her wrist she sent it spinning to land askew, atop her golden tresses, "Perhaps you have heard the name?"

Jarlaxle was taken aback. Clearly she was a bard of some renown, or more aptly, she wished to be a bard of some renown, he smirked as he looked her over.

His eyes roamed over her, from head to sparkling toe, her clothes were resplendent, made almost entirely of reddish brown feathers. Not even a scuff marred her boots! She carried no obvious weapons and her stance spoke performer, not fighter. No, Raphealla Von'Mercer most likely, never left her cramped shop. If she was really a famous bard, Jarlaxle knew he would have at least have heard her name.

Jarlaxle gave her just a tip of his hat, so as not to seem ostentatious, "Jarlaxle D'aerthe at your service, My Lady. I am but a humble traveler and alas, the name Raphealla Von'Mercer has not yet reached my ears. But that shall be remedied, surly, if you would but spare me just a moment of you time."

Raphealla thrust out one shapely hip and brought a slender finger up to the corner of her mouth, striking her best pensive pose, "My, but you are a dashing fellow. How can I be of service to you this fine day?"

Several hours later Jarlaxle left the Showman's Quill with a spring in his step and several packages under his arms. He took the rickety steppes of the Cloak and Dagger two at a time. When he reached his room, Jarlaxle was more than pleased to find Athrogate, hung-over, but awake.

"Good news, my drink ravaged friend! Get up, get dressed, we have much to do!" Jarlaxle practically sang his words as he ripped into the packages.

Athrogate grumbled and rolled out of bed, he landed on his hands and knees and crawled over to an amber bottle that was on it's side. He made a grab for it, but the bottle slipped out of his fingers and skittered across the floor to come to a spinning halt near Jarlaxle's polished black boots.

Jarlaxle cocked his head and looked at the Dwarf askance. He snatched up the bottle and tossed Athrogate a small potion instead.

"See here! We've no time for such nonsense, my good Dwarf. Now bottoms up, I need you in top shape if we are to master our routine!"

Athrogate drank the potion down and was disappointed by it's lack of kick, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, "Someone's gone an' poisoned tha soggy mass ye be call'en a brain! What's this ye be go'in on about?"

Jarlaxle smiled wide and pulled out a royal blue, gold timed outfit, complete with a little tasseled cape, "You see, Athrogate, I have booked us passage through a reliable page. We are leaving for Waterdeep, and traveling as bards no less!" Jarlaxle laid out the clothes on the Dwarf's messed bed.

"Now get dressed, we have much to go over. I wouldn't want to disappoint our fans, after all!" Jarlaxle flashed a toothy grin.

Jarlaxle concentrated briefly on the magic of the mask and in seconds his appearance changed. In the blink of an eye he took on the form of an androgynous half elf, his clothes and hat changed to look like they were made entirely out of feathers.

"Raphael Von'Mercer, at your service, the greatest bard in all the realms!" Jarlaxle proclaimed with a gesture far grander than he had ever used before.

"Suren yer disguises keep getten prettier and prettier, coal skin. Ye'll be a noble lady or Queen Dragonsbane herself next I reckon! Gwhaahaaa!" Athrogate continued to laugh as he picked over the clothes on his bed.

Jarlaxle had successfully copied the shopkeeper's garb, down to the very last detail, including the fancy, sliver, crescent moon and harp pin she had worn on her hat band, "Enough of this banter, my friend. Make haste, the Wa'Wona sets sail at dusk."

Malehedectar marveled at the grace and beauty of her mount. Jarlaxle had spared no expense outfitting his newest lieutenant. The white Calimshite mare was lithe and swift, Mal would be sore to leave her in Memnon.

Usually reserved for nobles, or extremely wealthy merchants, the desert breed of Calimshite horses were inordinately expensive. Prized for their intelligence and regale bearing, the mounts usually lent some of their prestige to their riders.

Malehedectar felt far from prestigious but not because of the mare. She was having quite a time, arguing with and adjusting, her billowy white shirt, and navigating the black piwafi that trailed out behind her. The clothes were another of Jarlaxle's little gifts, it's not like she did not have coin to finance her own endeavors, like dressing herself, but the mercenary Captain had insisted.

His instance had bordered on an order, and Mal knew it was in her best interest to accept. When Jarlaxle instead, it was never wise to back away. Malehedectar also knew that gifts from Jarlaxle were, at best, like gifts from a Djen; they were never given with out a price. What price Jarlaxle would demand was another matter all together.

Dwahvel's teeth were chattering. The Mistress of the Halflings Guild was shivering uncontrollably, balled up, on the floor of her stonewalled cell. Time passed, she did not know how long, but she was beginning to hope that the wizard had forgotten about her. It was a fleeting hope, she knew, and Dwahvel cringed when a black mist began to take shape in the far corner.

The cell was illuminated by the glowing lichen that covered the damp walls. The soft blue light played in the lingering mist and as Jouneidi drew it around himself, like an ethereal cloak, the light caused it to shimmer.

When finally the dark skinned wizard allowed the mist to subside he spoke in a hissing whisper, "I trust these accommodations are more than adequate, Guild Mistress?" Jouneidi chuckled, at her non-response, "Well it's no matter, we shall be moving you into a more… comfortable suit shortly."

A wellspring of impotent furry rose in her throat, "You will die for this Jouneidi! This I promise you!" Dwahvel yelled, her voice raw, the words scraping her vocals like sand across chafed skin.

"Save your foolish promises for someone else, Half woman!" The wizard shouted, his words booming like thunder, ringing in her ears.

Abruptly the wizard calmed. A wide, almost pleasant smile danced upon his lips, and his dark eyes sparkled with mirth. Somehow, the smile, Jouneidi's whole demeanor, seemed infinitely more unsettling than his outright anger.

"We have the luxury of time, my dear. The Basadoni's are not going anywhere and with Lujan's abominations chipping away at their numbers every day, we really can afford to wait." Jouneidi paced the small cell, "The Basadoni Guild will fall, make no mistake! And with your gracious cooperation, Dwahvel, their holdings shall all me mine!" Jouneidi shot a clenched fist into the air, "Time is on OUR side not YOURS halfling!"

A blinding white light shot out of the wizard's fist and the sound of grating stone caught Dwahvel's attention. Up, in each corner of the cell, small shoots opened. Water, as cold as death's embrace, rushed from the openings, forcing Dwahvel to stand, the water reached her ankles in no time and was steadily rising.

"I shall be back, and soon, though possibly not as soon as you would, undoubtedly, prefer." Jouneidi smiled again, that pleasant, unconcerned, smile and vanished in a swirl of black.

Disstan was very upset; he didn't know what to do. Hand, no Pasha Hand was sure to punish him, or even have him killed! The scrawny, dusky blond, boy clenched a dirty wig in his hand as he squatted behind a few crates of moldering garbage.

He should have gone straight to the kitchens! A cheese pie, even one of Mistress Ivory's cheese pies, would have been preferable to the situation he found himself in. Disstan, who fancied himself a great rogue, had hidden and eavesdropped on the little girl's whole tale. Turns out, she was no little girl at all! A good rogue would have spotted a Halfling, no matter how well disguised, he scolded himself.

The green eyed boy, of barely fifteen summers, had followed the Guild Mistress all the way to Half Moon street. He had lost her when she skipped down an alley, but careful tracking and an almost inborn knowledge of the labyrinthine back passageways had led him to her discarded disguise.

Disstan absently tossed two hammer darts in his other hand as he thought of what to do. The boy had gone over every inch of the alleys, but found no sign of the Halfling Mistress, or any clue as to where she went. He had spied two Rakers though and they were carrying an empty net.

"It could be she escaped them and made it back to her Guild", he murmured to himself, "Or it could be that those Rakers killed her, and just hid the body extremely well." Disstan shuddered at the thought.

He had seen plenty of bodies in his time, mostly bloated, decomposing wretches. The remains of the old and the poor, whose final resting place was in the open sewers of some forgotten back alley. Disstan thought of the plump rosy cheeks, the tear streaked face of the Guild Mistress as she had spun him her tale. Sure it had all been a ruse, but she seemed too nice, too good to be allowed to rot in a sewer.

The boy pocketed the darts as he stood and carefully folded the wig, placing it in the worn leather satchel he had slung over his shoulder. Disstan tucked his loose, dirty blond, hair back behind his ears and squared his shoulders.

The green eyed youth, puffed out his chest; if he was going to be punished than so be it! He simply could not let the halfling woman die, if she was not dead already! Quickly he set off, melting into the long shadows of dusk, off towards the Basadoni complex and a sound whipping, he was sure.


	11. Chapter Ten

CHAPTER TEN

Artemis Entreri lurched in the exotic saddle; he leaned forward and wretched over the camel's hairy flank. Beads of red, foamy, bile clung to the beast's fur and Nylund quickly pulled up beside him.

Mercifully, the sun was on it's way down, but the dry, punishing, heat had already taken it's toll on the assassin. Nylund passed off a canteen of weak, herbal tea, but the thought of drinking any more of that vile concoction almost had Entreri gagging again. A haze hung in the air, a distortion, caused by the heat. It made the distant sand dunes roll like waves in his vision; Artemis Entreri could not recall having ever felt so miserable.

With every lumbering stride Entreri cursed the beast. The dull ach in his side flared up into small stabs of agony every time he dipped in the saddle. Grudgingly, Artemis drank from the canteen. The tea smelled like rancid sweat and left his mouth feeling as if he had stuffed it with Jarlaxle's old socks.

Artemis did gag then, dry heaving, as his mind involuntarily conjured up an image of the socks he had left in the corner of his magical tent. Another round of pink, frothy, bile escaped his lips and Entreri couldn't help but laugh as the spasms died down. He reminded himself to burn those foul things as soon as he had the chance. It would no doubt, supremely gratify the drow to learn that even his discarded clothing was enough to make Entreri sick.

The tribe's caravan broke rank as the sun dipped beneath golden waves of sand. A wait of a few hours would be spent in solemn reflection. The people of the Desert Sun positioned their camels and few horses in a large circle. The children and women congregated in the center to share the evening meal, but the men would not be partaking this night.

Entreri leaned heavily on his camel and Nylund stood close by, watching, monitoring, the assassin's condition. Abrhama appeared then, offering more tea, as he began to explain more thoroughly about their sacred pilgrimage.

Nylund's voice was rife with worry as he spoke the Shaman's words, "Artem, we are approaching the City of the Dead. Just after high moon, the gates will be visible to us all. At the gate, all of the warrior's must consume the sacrament; the power of the Spirit of the Dessert is within it. As with the Malpitte, you must call to him, but be not afraid, he is a protector, a builder of strength. He is not harsh in his powers like the Malpitte."

Abrhama laid a hand on Entreri's shoulder as he spoke. The liquid pools of the Shaman's eyes reflected a sadness, lament.

"The Spirit of the Desert dos not come to all who seek him, Artem. Nor are all men fit to call him. This is a journey you must undertake with respect and devotion. The Desert Spirit can, and will guide you, protect you, but only when you learn his name."

Artemis Entreri was pale, his heaving had opened the wound in his side and the thin, off white, tunic he wore was clinging to his skin, fast becoming a wet crimson. He moved a hand to his side and flinched as his fingers brushed the stain. Entreri studied the smear of blood on his hand and looked again into the Shaman's eyes.

Abrhama snatched the assassin's hand and tisked. He moved closer and peeled up the clinging fabric to examine the oozing wound. With a wave of his bony hand, Abrhama bid them follow as he shuffled off.

Nylund grasped Entreri's arm strongly, waiting for the assassin to steady himself. Artemis pushed off against the camel and swayed on his feet. When finally he found his balance he allowed the Northman to guide him to the Shaman's make-shift work space.

Entreri sat gingerly on a woven mat. Stripped to the waist, he shivered in the, rapidly cooling, desert eve. Abrhama's skinny fingers worked deftly around the puncture, dabbing off the spilt blood and repacking the yarrow compress.

His thoughts were far away, in the black water oasis, searching for the boy; his spirit. Artemis hated and revered the Malpitte. Hated her for making him relive all the horrors of his childhood, but revered her for allowing him to know, if only for a moment, the spirit that had fled from him so long ago.

Artemis recalled the Shaman's words, something about eating a sacrament. The powers of the Desert Spirit were held within this sacrament it seemed. He sucked in a sharp breath and closed his eyes as Abrhama applied pressure to the wound. Entreri knew that he could very well die if he let his mind go on a journey with another of the tribe's sacred spirits. But he had come too far to simply cast this all aside.

Perhaps it is better that I die, he thought, rather than never discover where this path leads. Entreri cast his thoughts to the memory of the boy's bright eyes, shining through the mist of the oasis. How different were those eyes from his own, empty, soulless orbs.

When the Shaman was done, Entreri carefully stretched out on the mat, letting his mind go over the interpretations Abrhama had given him of the vision. The wound in his side was testament that this progress, this transformation, could not be attained with violence. The fight would be with his own aversion to submission. There would be no battling these emotions, no binding them to his will. These things did not dwell within the realms of reason, but rather, in the long neglected, kingdom of his heart.

Artemis let out a mirthless chuckle; his heart was a black void, a deep canyon into which he had shoved every weak, unsettling, emotion since he was a boy. The damned flute had been like a dredge, stirring up that stagnate mass into churning turbulence.

The woman in the mask, Malehedectar; Abrhama said, that she represented all those buried things from his past that he had yearned to understand. The Shaman said that those things were at once beautiful and terrifying. Artemis shuddered at the memory of her gruesome face. Yes beautiful and terrifying were just the words to describe Mal.

Jarlaxle was merely a friendly face to guide him on his way, to bring him face to face with the great unknown. Entreri felt that same sensation creep over him once more, a cool mysteriousness, comforting and unsettling all at once. That was the trouble with the great unknown, the ambient other. These misplaced reminders, the feeling of knowing that there was something more, something he was missing.

And then it hit him, like Jarlaxle's daggers, his mind went blank. Dark, silent, and complete, Entreri knew freedom. He studied the backs of his eyelids, searching for that something more. His breathing became steady as an image came. It was intangible, indescribable and horrifying!

A feeling of dread clenched his chest and a loud buzzing sounded in his ears. Terrified, Entreri sat up, bolt upright, his eyes wide and his chest heaving. Nylund was by his side in seconds.

"Be still Artem. It was a dream, noting more." The blond man spoke, his words soothing, but irritating none the less.

The pain in his side flared and Artemis broke out in a cold sweat. Nylund was right, he realized, as he looked around at the saddled mounts. He had indeed been asleep, and for some time too, as the gathering was making ready for the last leg of their journey.

Entreri's stamina was rapidly waning, but he managed to haul himself to his feet and walk to his camel unaided. He opened and closed his fists, willing away the numbness that had settled in his fingers. Artemis Entreri knew his was dieing. The wound in his side had opened once more, only this time he covered the darkening stain with a saddle blanket.

He gritted his teeth and stoically bore the pain as he urged his mount onward. Artemis shook his head to banish the darkness that encroached on the out skirts of his vision. He needed to stay alert. If he was to die, if this was to be the last journey of Artemis Entreri than so be it, he thought, but not until I see it through to the end!

Vittands was loosing hope. He banged on the door of Dwahvel's study for the sixth time that hour. Again, there was no answer. Rather than turning away this time, however, the dark haired halfling rummaged in his pockets and brought out his lock picks. True, the lock, made by halflings, to keep halflings at bay, had never been opened with out a key, but Vittands had to try. No one had seen the Guild Mistress for hours, and he was beginning to fear the worst.

He kept telling himself that if he could just get the door open then all would be well. He would find her there, asleep at her desk. Vittands set to work on the ridiculously complex lock and listened to the click of the first few tumblers, with beads of perspiration sliding over his brow.

The sound of booted feet running down the wood floored corridor made the secretary jump. Vittands yanked the pick from the lock and yelped as he turned just in time to meet the rushing form of Rocio.

The Basadoni lieutenant did not bother to even catch his breath as he wheezed out an explanation of his sudden appearance, "Vittands!" Rocio huffed, "Urgent news!" The Basadoni hunched over then, his hands on his knees.

Five halfling thieves skittered to a stop behind Rocio, each red faced and clearly just as out of breath as the Basadoni was, "Tried to stop him! Too fast! Don't let him near Dwahvel!" a dirt faced thief, disguised as a street urchin shouted.

"Wickline! Hobbins! Move your troupe, meet me in the cellar. Dovins activate the mirror and wait for me there!" Vittands commanded.

As Dwahvel's chief secretary, his words were as good as the Guild Mistresses and so, without complaint the halflings were off. Each of them though, cast Rocio a dirty look before they went.

When the troupe was well away, Vittands turned his attention to the human, "Out with it Basadoni! Where is she?" the secretary's face was red, his expression, twisted with worry.

Rocio straitened, "We don't know. A pick pocket followed her from our Guild House and lost her in an alley. All he found were these." The Basadoni fished in is satchel and brought out the wig and Dwahvel's two hammer darts.

Vittands let out a gasp as all his hope came crashing down, "How do I know you are not lying? How do I know this is not some Basadoni ploy?" the halfling squeaked, his voice crumbling as he spoke the accusation he knew was untrue.

"Vittands, you know we have as much to loose as you do without Dwahvel! More importantly, what gain would be had in decapitating our strongest ally? If the Halfling Guild falls, so too will the Basadoni Guild." Rocio was worried, if he could not assure Vittands of his guild's innocence then all was lost.

Vittands cradled the dirty blond wig in his arms, "Did you bring the pick pocket that found these?"

"The boy is in the common room of the bar."

"Good. Get him and tell Ogilvie, the serving wench to bring you both to the cellar, I'll meet you there." Vittands pushed past the lanky human and made of the stairs.

Rocio had little trouble finding Disstan in the crowed common room of the Copper Ante. The wide eyed boy was surrounded by several women from the brothel upstairs. The Basadoni lieutenant waded through a copious amount of stacked, curled hair and ample halfling bosom to extricate the stuttering pick pocket.

Ogilvie, a fire haired, green eyed, halfling guided them down the carved stone stairs and down into the cellar corridors. A few quick twists and turns and at least one hidden passage brought them to the waiting Vittands and his troupe.

A hush fell over the gathering as Ogilvie retreated, and closed the sliding stone door. A trembling voice came from behind a curtain that sheltered an adjacent room.

"Vittands Sr., nothing from Memnon. Our runners reached the city with no sign of Entreri. Word from the Cloak and Dagger, though, places the masked woman a day's ride out of Myratma and closing on Memnon." There was a long pause and the words seemed to stretch, "Sir? What would you have me do?"

Vittands looked to Rocio, "What says Hand about the masked woman? She is a Basadoni, is she not?"

Rocio could have been knocked over with a feather. He had been briefed on the rogue master thief and the absentee Pasha, but some how he had placed them very far away. He had not spared them a thought and now, of all times, the Halflings wanted to mull them over?

"What has she to do with Dwahvel? This is serious! We need to form a plan, take action! Not discuss long absent Basadoni's!" Rocio snapped.

Vittands slammed his fists on a cluttered writing desk, causing the many ink bottles to jump and clink, "No one is taking this matter more seriously than me! Dwahvel is only an ally to you, but to us she is a leader! A mother to some, a lover to others, and a sister in arms to us all! Don't you assume for one moment that this guild will stand idle in the face of such a threat!" Vittands words were backed up by a chorus of agreement from his gathered thieves.

"Dwahvel sent a number of our runners off, to find Entreri and bring him in. We now need every skilled eye we have back in the city. At the same time, however, Entreri would be a powerful ally in this cause. Those two are friends and the assassin owes her a favor besides." The Halfling's voice was calm, but an under current of worry tinted his every word.

"Still, what roll dose Malehedectar have to play in this? She has been away for over fifteen years! I have never even seen her! Pasha Hand told me himself, he doesn't know if she even conceders her self a Basadoni any longer!" Rocio was agitated; the last thing he wanted was to deal with her, or Entreri, least of all in the midst of this fiasco.

"Well, we shall have to take our chances; by Tymora's grace this Malehedectar had better prove to be a Basadoni." Vittands turned to face the curtain and called to the halfling in the other room, "Leave word in Memnon to contact the masked woman, orders from her guild to bring Entreri in. Give her all the pertinent information and see her on her way. Tell our runners to report back to the Copper Ante with all haste! We have a situation in Calimport and our guild is no longer neutral. Issue orders to proceed with added caution in all dealings with rival guilds."

"You can't just issue orders from Basadoni Guild! Pasha Hand will" Rocio shouted, but was cut off.

"Pasha Hand will what? I can, and just did, issue a Basadoni mission! Desperate times call for decisive action! You tell your Pasha what I have done, and if he has any objections he can take them up with me, just as soon as Dwahvel is safe!" Vittands wagged a stubby finger at the lieutenant, "We have no time for lengthy meetings and profound deliberations, not with our Mistress missing and the Rakers attack looming."

"The Rakers!" Disstan interjected, "I saw two Rakers in the alleys! You think they got her?" the boy quickly sucked in his breath and clamped a hand over his mouth as all eyes turned to him.

"Wickline get LaValle straight away! Hobbins open our eyes and ears near the Raker Guild House, and Dovins, tell Ogilvie to fetch us up some sandwiches, it's going to be a long night."

The Wa'Wona was a massive, gaff rigged, three masted schooner. A trading vessel of much renown, she flew the pennants of several major port cities proudly, the colorful banners snapping the morning breeze. Her crisp, white, canvas sails pulled taught as the ship caught wind and churned up a white water wake. The mid morning sun glistened on the surface of the clear water of the Shining Sea and Captain Arbogast scanned the horizon from the bow.

Athrogate, who had found his sea legs a bit faster than Jarlaxle, was on deck, coiling lines and swapping stories with the crew. The gold thread trimming of his royal blue livery glinted in the sun, but first sailor who had mentioned how ridiculous the dwarf looked in such a get up was still nursing a split lip, and so none of the others had said any thing, and that suited Athrogate just fine.

Jarlaxle was below deck in the well appointed guest cabin, fighting an uphill battle with sea sickness. The green faced mercenary, turned bard was flipping through several books in-between bouts of dry heaving and dizziness. Laying on his stomach, Jarlaxle was reading a few epoch poems and scanning an old book of minor bardic spells.

Just then the ship lurched to starboard, picking up the current that would take them through Asavir's Channel and on into the Sea of Swords. The smooth transition felt to the sea sick drow like a short fall off a tall stalagmite. Jarlaxle's insides did a flip and the particularly clever cantrip he was studying evaporated from his mind.

With a curse and a suppressed gag Jarlaxle stood and snatched up the small glass flask the ship's Cleric had given him. He eyed the bright yellow, chalky liquid with suspicion. Jarlaxle had had enough of these unfamiliar remedies and foreign beverages. The potion, drama-trill, the Cleric had called it, was supposed to ease the stomach and return equilibrium, but he had yet to try it.

Jarlaxle sniffed the stopper dubiously and stuck out his tongue as he wrinkled his nose, trying his best, despite his illness, and lack of audience, to be dramatic. It stank of rotting fruit! But as the ship steadied its course Jarlaxle was assailed by another bout of dizzy nausea. He pitched himself back to his bunk with an arm draped over his forehead, a theatrical gesture of defeat. Perhaps he would disembark at Baldur's gate after all; if this insufferable sickness could not be quelled then he was sure he could not stomach the longer trip.

Jarlaxle sighed heavily, he had already invested much in this new plan and a sour stomach would not be enough to derail it. With heavy reluctance he removed the stopper and cringed as the chalky liquid slid down his throat.

Several moments later, and feeling exceedingly better, Jarlaxle made an appearance on deck. The cool salty breeze fluttered his golden hair and rustled the feathers of his great, disguised hat. Jarlaxle could have kicked himself for not having tried the potion sooner. Other than the horrid rotten fruit taste it had left in his mouth, it was not bad at all. His stomach had settled right away and he head was finally back atop his shoulders.

Jarlaxle smiled as he strutted across the foredeck and over to the bow. Captain Arbogast hailed him with a friendly wave. As Jarlaxle made his way to the Captain, Athrogate's rough, but lyrical voice, caught his ears.

"An with tha Drow's sword strapped ta his back, King Bruenor himself launched tha attack!

He hopped on that Dragon with no heed for tha flames. He was King o' Mithral Hall! There be no deny'en his claims!

His daughter an son cried out in alarm; They weren't fer know'en the flames did no harm!

He rode that Dragon down Garumn's Gorge! Tha beast burn'en hotter than a dwarven Smith's forge!"

Captain Arbogast clasped Jarlaxle's wrist, "Von'Mercer! It's good to see you up and about! I trust Tieden's potion did the trick?"

"Yes indeed Captain, remind me to thank the Cleric personally. I trust my associate has been keeping the crew entertained in my absence?" Jarlaxle indicated the dwarf, who was standing atop a pile of tightly coiled lines.

The Captain stroked his large white mustache and chuckled, "Oh to be sure he has! A Dwarven bard is quite a novelty. I don't believe I have ever seen the like before."

Jarlaxle's blue eyes flashed, "Nor will you again I'd wager. To the best of my, considerable, knowledge in this area I can say with some certainty that Athrogate is the only Dwarven bard this side of Vaasa!" Jarlaxle proclaimed raising his pointed finger in the air.

"I came upon the fellow some time ago amidst a terrible siege"; he hung his head, as if remembering a horror too gruesome to articulate, "But thanks to our combined efforts, the undead army of castle D'aerthe were pushed back! With the moral boost our songs provided, the defenders of Palischuk won the day, and Athrogate and I have journeyed together ever since." Jarlaxle clasped his hands and then flung his arms out wide to indicate the dwarf, still wrapped up in his telling of the conquest of Mithral Hall.

"Palischuk, you say? That's an Orc city, is it not?" the Captain asked, blowing out his mustaches, seeming a bit worried.

Jarlaxle was unconcerned by the question, humans always fretted over the monstrous races after all, "So it is, but an Orc city under the banner of King Dragonsbane, a noble and goodly banner, or so they say."

"Hummph, if only every Orc city could claim such a banner," Arbogast mused, "You have been too long in the Bloodstone Lands. How you got to Myratma with out hearing the news, I'll not hazard a guess, but the Orcs near Mithral Hall have gone and carved themselves out a Kingdom, and not with out a fight."

Jarlaxle was concerned then, he shot another look Athrogate's way, assuring the dwarf was still embroiled in his story, "Yes it was wizard's travel", Jarlaxle replied, moving a hand over his stomach as if remembering a fell sickness, "and not again, I assure you. But please elaborate; I am sure my associate will be most eager to learn what has transpired, but it is best he hear it from a friend, if it is indeed as bloody as you have insinuated."

The silken strands of his mind hummed and twitched out a warning. This could be very bad for his well laid plans. If the Orcs who had raised this kingdom were the ones who had conquered and briefly occupied, Citadel Felbarr then there was no telling how Athrogate would react.

"Well it is a new development, and only a rumor, mind you, but word of war travels fast and fairly accurately, to be sure. The Kingdom is named Manny-Arrows. Their leader calls himself a king! Imagine that! King Obould Many-Arrows! It has been a swift and deadly battle, or so they say." Arbogast shook his head and scoffed.

"The dwarves from Citadel Felbarr and Lady Alustriel Silverhand herself came to fight. But the Orc King is a smart one; no one has ever seen his like! The dwarves slaughtered the Orcs in numbers, but many of the bearded folk died as well. Finally, or so I've heard, the battle has ended. But the Kingdom Manny-Arrows still stands, even recognized by Silverymoon and Mithral Hall now. It is a tenuous agreement, but I say it won't stand." The Captain shook his head and spit over the polished side of his ship.

Jarlaxle's clenched tooth smile was more manic than dramatic, "Yes, I would be in your debt, good Captain Arbogast, if you were to let me break the news to my, dear companion."

Arbogast gave a grim nod, "It's always best to hear these things from a friend. I'll tell the crew not to mention it. The last thing we need is a blood thirsty Dwarven bard loose on deck."

Jarlaxle nodded in quick agreement, "Perhaps it is best he not be informed until we reach our destination." Jarlaxle bowed to the Captain and glided smoothly down the catch the end of Athrogate's tale, and to ensure the dwarf be ushered away as soon as he was finished.

Malehedectar's nose wrinkled beneath the black silk of her mask as she entered Memnon. The smell of wet ash, wood smoke, and burned hair, still clung to the city and Mal resolved to be done here quickly lest the stench cling to her as well. She set off at a trot through the winding streets of Memnon, the crowd giving her wide birth, and more than a few covetous looks. With the regal mount and richly tailored clothes, Jarlaxle had so generously, provided Malehedectar had no trouble passing the city and guild appointed guards as she slipped into the more affluent sector of the city.

A dull haze to windblown ash and dusty sand still lingered in the air. It was as if even the breeze of the sea was not enough to cleanse the city of the Clergy's sins. Mal's smirk was wicked as she considered the events that had led to the fall of Selûne's temple. The great Artemis Entreri, famed for his stealth and unerring precision had brought that temple down. In a move of astounding idiocy, he had waltzed into the Protector's House, in broad daylight, slaughtered the clergy and burned the temple to the ground!

Mal shook her head and chuckled mirthlessly, Entreri's move filled her with a mixture of admiration and incredulity, "Artemis Entreri always a feint within a feint. Though he had better have a sound explanation for murdering Basadoni," She muttered to herself as she reigned in at the Sultan's Gem.

She and allowed Jarlaxle's charm to distract her from her original mission of revenge, the drow had most likely used some fell magic to wipe the thoughts from her mind. Or was it, Mal gave it more thought, her seemingly undying infatuation with Entreri that muddied those vengeful yearnings?

Whatever the reason, Malehedectar tried to shake those thoughts from her mind as she dismounted and passed off the reigns to a gold and crimson clad valet. She had assumed that by giving herself to Jarlaxle, her infatuation with Artemis would finally recede. That was of no significance, Mal reflected bitterly, stubbornly, even if Jarlaxle would not play at fidelity, she would giver herself to no one else.

Malehedectar did not, however, ponder the naivety of such thoughts as she stepped through the wrought iron gates and into the reception garden of the Sultan's Gem. No matter what lingering feelings she had for Artemis Entreri, Mal concluded that if he could not provide a rational explanation for killing the one man who had been like a father to them both, then he would have to die! That decision made, she was able to put the matter to rest.

So warped up on her musings, Malehedectar had missed the tale tell, rather large, feet of the 'boy' who had led her horse to the stables. Unconcerned, she lifted her mask and let the fragrance of jasmine and fruit blossoms wash over her. The lush, almost wet, atmosphere in the Sultan's Gem atrium took her back to Basadoni's roof top garden and the humid sparring matches she had shared with the assassin. A twisted knot formed in her belly as she recalled Pasha Basadoni on the sidelines, dictating their moves and correction their form. The knot pulled even tighter as she pictured slipping her dagger in to the base of Entreri's skull.

Mal pushed through the dark, brass-inlayed, doors and marched across the marble paved floor of the lobby with out a backward glace at the livelily clad boy, who was rushing to catch her. Malehedectar came to an abrupt stop beside a large polished stone podium and rang the bell with a heavy, irritated hand. The shrill, off key, note that resulted suited her mood just fine. Mal was wound so tightly that, at the sound of a squeaky voice just behind her, she nearly drew steel.

Malehedectar reigned in the instinct that demanded blood, as she whirled around; her piwafi, thankfully covering her grasp on the hilts of her weapons. This time, she saw the boy for what he was, a halfling! Rage, and worry over her mount, almost made her reconsider not killing him on the spot, almost. Instead she narrowed her eyes and followed the little fellow back out into the garden, where her horse, as well as fresh supplies waited.

The halfling, Dupree, by name, quickly flashed the twin dagger hand signal of the Basadoni Guild when he noticed the woman's mounting anger. To Dupree's surprise and ultimate misfortune, her eyes only narrowed further.

In one quick motion Malehedectar drew up beside the halfling and grasped his shoulder in a vice like grip. Her jeweled dagger, hidden by his body came up to prick him at the base of his neck. Mal concentrated briefly on the magic of the dagger and then willed it to stop. Dupree's brown eyes went wide as he gasped in horror. Never, never in his life had be been this close to death. The cold void the dagger promised was utterly terrifying. The halfling stiffened as rush of incomprehensible babble spilled from his lips.

"Quiet!" Mal hissed, "I hold you very soul in my hands, halfling. Now none of your tricks! Tell me, did you think that Malehedectar Basadoni would just walk into your feeble trap? If you value your pathetic hide, I suggest you signal your kin to stand down." Mal was fuming, she was sure she had out distanced any rumors of her dagger, but these thieves would speak otherwise.

"No trap! There are no others! Just me!" Dupree eked out, "Orders from Pasha Hand!"

The halflings words did little to set her at ease. A more detailed inspection of the garden however, confirmed that her assumption was flawed. There were no others, just as the halfling claimed. Confident that she could take him out at any time Mal sheathed her dagger and stepped back.

"Choose your next words carefully, and you may still live to see the marrow."

Dupree produced a sealed envelope and held it out with a shaky hand, "From LaValle," he muttered, and then held out another, "From Basadoni Guild."

Malehedectar cracked the seal on the first message, not bothering with the second just yet. She scanned LaValle's letter for hallmarks, assuring it was no forgery. Her plans had been changed it seemed. LaValle had outlined in so many words that her arrival was no longer unexpected. The Basadoni's, desperate for any strength they could muster had seized on her arrival and already outlined her first mission.

Mal tucked the message away and snatched the next one. This one was a clear forgery, albeit a particularly well done forgery. She read the letter anyway and almost choked on the bile that rose in her throat. Some one either wanted her to waste time out in the Calim desert, or it was indeed as they claimed, they wished her to find Artemis and bring him in. Either way, she was stuck. Who ever had launched this plan had gotten to LaValle enough to make the wizard call off his contact's involvement. One way or another she had to get to Calimport, and soon if this intrigue said anything about the state of guild affairs.

Mal mentally went over her list of Bergen D'aerthe contacts. There were few on the surface, but the ones that were lye in the Dallabad oasis. An illithid, no less, but desperate times… Perhaps it was time to test out the more practical uses of Jarlaxle's eye patch.

Malehedectar crumpled the forged letter and threw it into Dupree's terrified little face, "You tell your Pasha, or whoever it was who commissioned this forgery that I'll do it, but for my own reasons and in my own manner. Every instinct I have tells me to spit you like the lying thief you are, were it not for my own rescores that confirm Entreri's whereabouts, I assure you, you would already be dead!" With that, she mounted her horse and was gone, faster than Dupree could thank Tymora for his life.


End file.
